THE  ENGLISH  NOVEL 


HOPKINS  AND  HUGHES 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


the  english  novel  before 
''the  nineteenth  century 


EXCERPTS 
FROM  REPRESENTATIVE  TYPES 


SELECTED  BY 

ANNETTE  BROWN  HOPKINS,  Ph.D. 

ASSOCIATE    PROFESSOR   OF   ENGLISH    IN    GOUCHER   COLLEGE 

HELEN  SARD  HUGHES,  A.M. 

FORMERLY   INSTRUCTOR   IN   ENGLISH    IN    VVELLESLEY   COLLEGE 


GINN  AND   COMPANY 

BOSTON  •  NEW  YORK.  •  CHICAGO  •  LONDON 


t'K\  -L>r^ 


COPYRIGHT,  191  5,  BY 
ANNETTE  BROWN   HOPKINS  AND  HELEN  SARD  HUGHES 


ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 
315-3 


tgbe    flthengum    3Pre>< 

(.INN    AM)   (  ciMl'AN\    •  IkO- 
I'KILTUKb  •  IJiiSluN  •  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

An  increasing  tendency  to  recognize  fiction  as  an  apt  vehicle 
for  instruction  in  Kterary  method  and  literary  history  is  leading 
many  schools  and  colleges  to  introduce  courses  in  the  history 
and  technique  of  the  novel.  Study  of  this  sort  naturally  involves 
discussion  of  the  beginnings  of  the  novel  in  earher  forms  of  nar- 
rative such  as  appeared  before  and  during  the  sixteenth  century, 
of  its  gradual  rise  through  the  next  century  and  a  half,  and  of 
its  rapid  dechne  during  the  last  decades  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Important  as  is  this  formative  period  in  the  history  of  the  novel, 
it  is  liable  in  the  average  course  to  suffer  from  inadequate  treat- 
ment because  of  the  difficulty  involved  in  obtaining  and  present- 
ing the  material. 

It  is  to  meet  this  difficulty  that  the  present  book  of  selec- 
tions has  been  planned.  The  intention  has  been  not  to  present 
whole  books  in  condensed  form,  such  a  task  in  a  volume  of  this 
character  being  obviously  impossible ;  but  to  offer  from  pre-nine- 
teenth-century  novels  vivid  and  interesting  excerpts  which 
should  illustrate  definite  technical  and  historical  features  in  the 
development  of  the  novel,  and  prove  of  sufficient  length  to  give 
an  idea  of  the  general  character  of  a  book  without  thwarting  the 
student's  desire  to  read  the  book  as  a  whole. 

In  order  that  the  selections  may  be  intelligible  to  the  student, 
explanatory  footnotes  and  connecting  links  in  the  form  of  sum- 
maries have  been  supplied  wherever  it  has  seemed  necessary. 
But  the  editors,  feehng  that  many  text-books  err  in  giving  too 
much  critical  assistance,  have  purposely  refrained  from  includ- 
ing any  critical  material  on  the  novel  except  what  may  be  found 
in  the  brief  historical  notes  forming  the  introduction.  Sufficient 
aid  of  this  nature,  they  hope,  will  be  supplied  by  the  bibhography. 
The  book  is  to  illustrate,  not  to  expound.  It  undertakes  to  rep- 
resent various  species  of  the  novel :   the  romantic,  the  psycho- 


iv  PREFACE 

logical,  the  didactic,  the  picaresque,  etc. ;  and  in  these  selec- 
tions to  show  the  skill  of  respective  noveHsts  in  the  handling  of 
plot,  character,  scene,  incident,  and  purpose  sufificiently  to  en- 
able teacher  and  student  to  find  the  book  of  practical  value  in 
the  class-room. 

Care  has  been  taken  to  secure  accurate  texts  of  the  novels 
selected  by  comparing  them  with  the  most  trustworthy  editions 
accessible,  but  neither  space  nor  expediency  has  permitted  dis- 
cussion of  variant  readings.  Care  has  been  taken,  also,  to  as- 
certain exact  dates  of  publication  for  these  novels,  though  in 
some  cases,  such  as  "Oroonoko"  and  the  first  volumes  of  "Tris- 
tram Shandy"  wide  difference  of  opinion  has  made  it  difficult 
to  reach  a  satisfactory  decision.  Where  dates  could  not  be  deter- 
mined from  a  more  accurate  source,  "The  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography"  has  been  followed. 

The  introduction  is  not  intended  as  an  epitomized  history  of 
English  fiction,  but  simply  as  a  convenient  guide  to  be  used 
in  connection  with  the  excerpts  in  placing  them  historically  and 
in  showing  what  they  illustrate  technically. 

In  regard  to  the  particular  excerpts  made,  it  may  be  said  that 
the  editors,  while  realizing  the  place  in  the  growth  of  the  novel 
of  such  contributary  forms  as  the  tale  in  all  periods,  the  char- 
acter-writing and  epistolary  narratives  of  the  seventeenth,  and 
the  narrative  essays  of  the  eighteenth,  century,  felt  that  to  increase 
the  illustration  with  such  material  would  be  to  exceed  the  hmits 
of  a  single  volume ;  therefore  it  seemed  wiser  to  keep  to  the 
main  channel  of  development. 

Again,  it  has  seemed  unnecessary  to  extend  the  period  of 
representation  into  the  nineteenth  century,  because  the  more 
modern  novels  are  usually  obtainable  in  the  average  Hbrary, 
they  are  published  in  cheap  editions,  and  they  are  of  such  a 
nature  as  to  be  profitably  read  in  their  entirety. 

Finally,  we  wish  to  acknowledge  gratefully  the  counsel  and 
assistance  of  Professor  John  M.  Manly  in  solving  problems  of 
obscure  chronology. 

A.  B.  H., 
H.  S.  H. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION vii 

BIBLIOGRAPHY xv 

LE  MORTE  DARTHUR.    (Completed,  1469;  printed,  1485) i 

Sir  Thomas  Malory 

EUPHUES.    THE  ANATOMY  OF  WIT.   (1579) 60 

John  Lyly 

THE  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE'S  ARCADIA.   (Written,  1580-1581; 

published,  1590) 88 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

THE  UNFORTUNATE  TRAVELLER:    OR,    THE   LIFE    OF  JACK 

WILTON.    (1594) 121 

Thomas  Nashe 
THE  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS.    (1678-1684)1 128 

John  Bunyan 
OROONOKO:  OR,  THE  ROYAL  SLAVE.    (1688) 160 

Mrs.  Aphra  Behn 

THE   LIFE,  ADVENTURES,  AND    PIRACIES   OF  THE   FAMOUS 

CAPTAIN  SINGLETON.    (1720)        172 

Daniel  Defoe 
CLARISSA  :  OR,  THE  HISTORY  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY.   (1747-1748)2     239 

Samuel  Richardson 

THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,  A  FOUNDLING.    (1749)   ....     303 
Henry  Fielding 

THE    LIFE    AND    OPINIONS    OF    TRISTRAM    SHANDY,    GENT. 

(1759-1767)3 396 

Laurence  Sterne 

THE  EXPEDITION  OF  HUMPHRY  CLINKER.    (1771) 418 

Tobias  George  Smollett 

1  Part  I,  1678;  IL  1684.  2  jTji-st  four  volumes,  1747  ;  last  four,  1748. 

3  Published  in  nine  volumes  between  1759  and  1767. 


vi  CONTENTS 

EVELINA:  OR,  THE  HISTORY  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY'S  ENTRANCE 

INTO  THE  WORLD.    (1778) 443 

Fanny  Burney 
THE  CASTLE  OF  OTRANTO:  A  GOTHIC   STORY.    (1764)      ...     483 

Horace  Walpole 
THE  MYSTERIES  OF  UDOLPIIO.    (1794) 578 

Mrs.  Ann  Raucliffe 
THE  MAN  OF  FEELING.    (1771) 656 

Hknrv  Mackenzie 

THE    HISTORY    OF    SANDFORD    AND    MERTON.     (Vol.  I,   1783; 

II,  1787;  III,  1789) 679 

Thoma-s  Day 
NATURE  AND  ART.    (1796) 706 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Inchbald 

THINGS  AS  THEY   ARE:    OR,  THE   ADVENTURES   OF  CALEB 

WILLIAMS.    (1794) 737 

William  Godwin 
INDEX 787 


INTRODUCTION 

The  MedicBval  Period:  Arthurian  Romance.  —  Out  of  the  great 
diversity  of  fiction  current  in  England  before  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, romance,  particularly  Arthurian  romance,  appears  as  the 
dominant  type  and  the  one  which  has  exerted  on  succeeding 
periods  the  most  persistent  influence.  In  relation  to  the  novel 
the  mediaeval  Arthurian  romance  stands  probably  closer  than 
any  other  species  of  fiction  of  that  day,  embodying  as  it  does  a 
reflection  of  the  courtly  life  of  the  period,  an  expression  of  the 
interests  of  love  and  adventure,  and  the  portrayal  of  certain 
clearly  defined  though  conventional  types  of  character.  "Le 
Morte  Darthur"  by  Sir  Thomas  Malory  (completed,  1469; 
printed,  1485)  though  late  in  point  of  time,  is  thoroughly  medi- 
aeval in  spirit  and  marks  the  culmination  in  the  development 
of  mediaeval  Arthurian  romance.  Based  mainly  on  the  French 
cyclic  romances  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries, 
works  which  are  in  themselves  all  inclusive,  it  is  really  an  epit- 
ome of  Arthurian  adventure.  For  this  reason,  together  with 
the  fact  that  it  offers  no  difficulties  of  language  such  as  would 
attend  the  study  of  earlier  Enghsh  romances,  the  "Morte  Dar- 
thur" has  been  chosen  as  the  most  suitable  representative  of 
mediaeval  fiction. 

The  Elizabethan  Period.  —  In  Elizabethan  fiction  may  be 
traced  three  strains,  all  showing  the  indebtedness  of  the  English 
Renaissance  to  Romance  literatures:  (i)  The  strain  of  the 
Italian  novelle,  collections  of  reahstic  stories  of  everyday  Hfe, 
may  be  traced  in  Lyly's  "Euphues,"  together  with  the  influ- 
ence of  certain  manuals  of  courtesy  and  of  courtly  conduct  such 
as  Castiglione's  "II  Cortegiano."  (2)  The  strain  of  the  pastoral 
romance  developed  from  Theocritus  and  Virgil  by  Boccaccio, 
Sannazaro,  and  Ariosto  in  Italy  and  by  Montemayor  in  Spain, 
is  found  in  England  with  the  tradition  of  Arthurian  romances  of 
chivalry;    of  this  union  Sidney's  "Arcadia"  is  a  notable  fruit. 


xnii  INTRODUCTION 

(3)  The  strain  of  the  picaresque  or  rogue  story  of  Spanish  origin, 
exemplified  in  Spain  by  Mendoza's  "Lazarillo  de  Tormes," 
was  developed  in  England  through  Nashe's  "The  Unfortunate 
Traveller,"  one  of  the  first  of  a  long  Une  of  picaresque  novels. 

"Euphues.  The  Anatomy  of  Wit"  by  John  Lyly  (1579)  was 
a  highly  popular  work,  written  probably  for  Ehzabethan  ladies. 
It  combines  to  some  extent  the  realistic  method  of  the  novelle 
and  the  purpose  of  the  Renaissance  courtesy  book,  attempting 
to  set  forth  the  manners  and  ideals  proper  to  noble  persons  of 
the  time.  The  selections  illustrate  the  style,  which  later  came 
to  be  called  euphuism,  characterized  by  alliteration,  antithesis, 
word  play,  and  the  use  of  figurative  material  of  a  specific  sort. 
They  illustrate  also  the  measure  of  Lyly's  skill  in  narration  and 
characterization,  and  the  influence  of  the  Renaissance  upon  the 
thought  and  conduct  of  Ehzabethan  society. 

"The  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia"  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
(composed,  1580-81;  publ.,  1590)  was  written  as  a  pastime  for 
the  pleasure  of  his  sister,  the  Countess,  during  the  years  of 
Sidney's  banishment  from  court,  spent  at  Wilton  House,  the 
charming  country-seat  of  the  Earl  of  Pembroke.  Thus  in 
raison  d'etre  the  story  thoroughly  suppUes  the  motive  and  aim 
of  the  romantic  novel :  an  escape  from  the  responsibilities  of 
actual  Ufc  into  the  world  of  the  ideal.  The  book  illustrates 
admirably  the  Renaissance  delight  in  sensuous  beauty,  an  ele- 
ment which  is  given  wide  scope  for  expression  through  the 
pastoral  setting.  The  passages  chosen  suggest  the  complexity 
of  plot,  and  show  the  beauty  of  Sidney's  language  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  Arcadian  scenes,  his  humor,  and  his  method  of  char- 
acterization. 

"The  Unfortunate  Traveller"  by  Thomas  Nashe  (1594) 
is  a  prominent  example  of  the  romance  of  roguery,  a  type  of  story 
comprising  tricks,  jokes,  and  adventures  of  a  dubious  sort  by 
which  an  unrcgcncrate  hero  glorifies  himself.  The  rogue  story 
comprises  one  phase  of  the  reaction  against  romance  which  devel- 
oped first  in  Spain  in  such  work  as  "Lazarillo  de  Tormes,"  next 
in  England  in  Nashe's  novel,  and  finally  matured  in  France  in 
"(iil  Hlas." 

The  Seventccnl/i  Century,  a  period  of  political  disturbance  in 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

England,  contributed  little  directly  to  the  development  of  the 
novel.  In  the  field  of  fiction  it  was  a  period  of  translation  and 
imitation,  particularly  of  the  Franch  fabliaux  and  of  the  French 
heroic  romances  in  prose.  But  in  spite  of  the  general  dearth  of 
original  production  there  appeared  during  this  time  two  impor- 
tant and  unique  works. 

"The  Pilgrim's  Progress"  by  John  Bunyan  (1678-84)  is  a 
spiritual  allegory  conspicuous  for  its  realism.  As  an  allegory 
it  is  true  to  life  both  in  its  abstract  and  its  concrete  aspects  and 
in  the  relation  between  the  two.  As  a  piece  of  narrative  prose 
it  marks  a  great  advance  in  the  realistic  use  of  specific  detail, 
and  in  simphcity  and  directness  of  method  and  style. 

"Oroonoko"  by  Mrs.  Aphra  Behn  (1688)  is  sometimes  spoken 
of  as  the  first  humanitarian  novel  in  English.  It  is  noteworthy 
not  only  as  an  early  manifestation  of  the  humanitarian  interest, 
but  also  as  an  attempt  to  give  accurate  local  color.  Until  very 
recently,  "Oroonoko"  has  been  held  of  particular  significance 
in  the  development  of  realistic  fiction.  Though  it  has  been  con- 
ceded that  the  first  part  of  the  story  is  pure  romance,  the  latter 
part  in  which  the  scene  is  laid  in  the  South  American  colony 
of  Surinam  has  been  accepted  as  reahstic  portrayal,  the  result 
of  the  author's  personal  experience  amid  the  scenes  described. 
All  writers  on  the  novel,  so  far  as  we  know,  have  entertained 
this  view,  until  the  appearance  in  1 913  of  a  study  by  Mr.  Ernest 
Bernbaum  ^  which  is  subversive  of  all  former  theories.  Mr. 
Bernbaum  points  out  convincingly  that  Mrs.  Behn's  account  is 
compounded  of  certain  serious  misstatements  and  of  other  de- 
tails scientifically  accurate,  but  not  at  all  necessitating  first-hand 
observation.  Most  of  the  facts  of  natural  history  with  which 
she  deals  are  to  be  found  in  comparable  form  in  a  pamphlet, 
now  rare,  entitled  "An  Impartial  Description  of  Surinam,"^  pub- 
lished in  1667.  The  comparisons  which  Mr.  Bernbaum  presents 
between  Mrs.  Behn  and  her  source  offer  interesting  studies  in 
narrative  technique.  His  final  comment  places  her  technically 
in  a  significant  position  with  relation  to  her  successors. 

1  "Anniversary  Papers  by  the  Colleagues  and  Pupils  of  George  Lyman  Kittredge," 
Mrs.  Behn's  "Oroonoko,"  Ginn  and  Company,  1913,  pp.  419  ff. 

2  George  Warren,  London,  1667. 


X  INTRODUCTION 

The  Eighteenth  Century  is  conspicuous  for  three  groups  of 
writers :  The  trio  of  major  novelists  marking  the  highest  reach 
of  the  novel  before  the  nineteenth  century  —  Defoe,  Richardson, 
and  Fielding ;  the  group  who  stand  only  a  Httle  below  them,  yet 
showing  unmistakable  signs  of  decadence  —  Smollett,  Sterne, 
and  Goldsmith  ^ ;  and  finally,  a  large  number  of  minor  writers 
who  exhibit  the  disintegration  of  the  novel  form  under  the  stress 
of  thought  and  feeling  rising  out  of  the  spiritual  ferment  of  the 
revolutionary  era.  In  this  last  group  come  the  Novel  of  Man- 
ners, represented  by  Miss  Burney  and  Miss  Edgeworth  ^ ; 
"the  Gothic  Novel,  represented  by  Horace  Walpole  and  Mrs.  Rad- 
cUffe ;  the  Novel  of  Feeling,  represented  by  Mackenzie ;  and  the 
Novel  of  Purpose,  with  an  emphasis  upon  education  as  seen  in 
the  work  of  Mrs.  Inchbald  and  Thomas  Day,  and  upon  social 
problems  as  exemplified  in  William  Godwin. 

"The  Life,  Adventures,  and  Piracies  of  the  Famous  Captain 
Singleton"^  by  Daniel  Defoe  (1720)  is,  as  the  title  implies,  a 
story  of  realistic  adventure  of  the  picaresque  type.  The  selec- 
tions illustrate  Defoe's  method  of  direct  narration,  his  skill  in 
characterizing  his  central  figures,  and  his  remarkable  power  of 
creating  verisimilitude  by  the  use  of  concrete,  circumstantial 
detail. 

"Clarissa  Harlowe"  by  Samuel  Richardson  (1747-48)  is 
both  a  novel  of  manners  and  a  novel  of  purpose.  Though  devel- 
oped through  a  realistic  medium  the  natural  progress  of  the  story 
is  continually  obstructed  and  the  coloring  heightened  by  a  delib- 
erate moral  purpose  permeating  the  whole,  and  culminating  in 
numerous  supererogatory  letters  after  the  close  of  the  story, 
proper.  The  epistolary  form  adopted  by  Richardson  probably 
grew  out  of  such  series  of  fictitious  letters,  in  vogue  during  the 
seventccth  and  early  eighteenth  centuries,  as  "Two  Hundred 
and  Eleven  Sociable  Letters"  (1664)  by  Margaret  Duchess  of 

•  Selections  from  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  were  omittcfl,  because  the  book  is  well  known 
and  is  easily  obtainable  in  cheap  editions. 

'  Miss  F.dceworth  was  omitted  because  her  work  belongs  to  the  nineteenth  century. 

•  "Captain  Singleton"  rather  than  "Robinson  Crusoe"  was  chosen  because  it  is  a  better 
example  of  the  picarcscjue  noNx-l  than  is  the  latter,  and  it  is  the  picaresque  novel  that  the 
editors  particularly  wish  to  illustrate  here.  Moreover,  "  Captain  Singleton  "  leads  the 
student  to  a  serious  study  of  Defoe's  technique  from  unhackneyed  material  and  from  a 
3tory  more  typical  of  the  author's  style  than  is  "  Robinson  Crusoe." 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

Newcastle,  and  "The  Letters  of  a  Portuguese  Nun"  (1678). 
The  method  gives  certain  technical  advantages :  a  varied  point 
of  view,  emotional  vividness,  and  opportunity  for  minute  self- 
revelation.  The  selections  chosen  exhibit  Richardson's  attitude 
toward  his  heroine  as  the  chief  vehicle  for  his  moral  purpose, 
his  sentimentahty,  his  dramatic  power  in  the  handhng  of  inci- 
dent, and  his  realistic  use  of  specific  detail  in  scene,  character- 
ization, and  action. 

"The  History  of  Tom  Jones"  by  Henry  Fielding  (1749)  is  a 
novel  of  manners  with  a  well-defined  strain  of  adventure.  The 
author's  critical  attitude  toward  himself,  his  work,  and  the  public 
is  attested  by  numerous  chapters  in  serio-humorous  vein  scat- 
tered throughout  the  book,  which,  taken  together,  form  a  compe- 
tent body  of  literary  criticism.  The  selections  from  "Tom 
Jones,"  including  some  of  these  chapters,  aim  to  present  the  hero's 
career  rather  fully  up  to  the  moment  of  his  departure  from  Mr. 
Allworthy's.  Further  than  this  it  seemed  unwise  to°  venture, 
because  of  the  difficulties  offered  by  the  increasing  complication 
of  plot.  This  portion  of  the  story  well  illustrates  Fielding's 
humor  and  irony,  his  skill  in  describing  character  in  action, 
and  his  power  of  vivid  reconstruction  of  middle-class  country 
life  in  the  eighteenth  century. 

"The  Life  and  Opinions  of  Tristram  Shandy,  Gent."  by  Rev. 
Laurence  Sterne  (1759-67)  marks  the  period  of  decadence  by 
the  breaking  down  of  the  novel  form  and  the  preponderance  of 
sentiment.  The  book  is  famous,  not  only  for  the  unique  quali- 
ties of  its  wit  and  style,  but  also  for  the  creation  of  a  few  great 
characters,  foremost  among  whom  stands  "My  Uncle  Toby," 
happily  presented  in  these  selections. 

"Humphry  Clinker"  by  Tobias  George  Smollett  (1771)  is  a 
story  of  love,  adventure,  and  mystery  told  in  epistolary  form. 
It  reflects  the  period  of  decadence  in  the  breaking  down  of  plot,' 
in  the  descent  from  character  to  caricature,  and  in  the  display  of 
farcical  humor.  The  selections  give  various  phases  of  Smollett's 
humor,  the  beginning  of  the  serious  love  interest,  and  the  intro- 
duction of  the  titular  hero. 

"Evelina"  by  Fanny  Burney  (Madame  d'Arblay)  (1778), 
another  example  of  the  epistolary  method,  is  an  excellent  repre- 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

sentative  of  the  novel  of  manners  of  the  type  perfected  by  Jane 
Austen.  In  technique  it  is  decidedly  superior  to  many  of  its 
contemporaries  in  the  novehstic  field.  The  excerpts  get  the 
story  under  way,  and  depict  two  of  the  heroine's  poignant  experi- 
ences in  London,  heightened  by  a  faithfully  reahstic  portrayal  of 
urban  background. 

"The  Castle  of  Otranto"  by  Horace  Walpole  (1764).  Among 
the  better  types  of  fiction  in  this  period  of  decHne  the  Gothic 
novel  holds  a  prominent  place.  This  species  of  novel  illustrates 
that  important  activity  of  the  Romantic  Movement  which 
sought  to  reconstruct  the  mediaeval  past,  expressing  itself  among 
other  ways,  in  the  erection  of  sham  castles,  and  in  the  imposi- 
tion upon  the  public  of  sham  ballads  and  sham  epics.  The 
motive  of  the  novel,  however,  was  ethically  upon  a  higher  plane 
than  that  of  these  other  literary  forms.  "The  Castle  of  Otranto," 
important  as  the  first  pure  specimen  of  the  type,  and  exhibiting, 
unreheved,  all  the  unique  machinery  of  the  Gothic  genre  is  here 
given  in  its  entirety.  Additional  value  now  attaches  to  the  book 
because  it  is  out  of  print,  and  therefore  very  difficult  of  access. 
All  these  facts,  together  with  the  comparative  brevity  of  the 
story,  have  urged  its  appearing  here  in  complete  form. 

"The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho"  by  Mrs.  Ann  Radchffe  (1794) 
marks  the  highest  development  attained  by  the  Gothic  novel  in 
the  eighteenth  century.  It  reveals,  too,  another  important  phase 
of  the  Romantic  Movement,  the  interest  in  external  nature. 
Here,  the  austere  mechanism  of  "  Otranto  "  becomes  even  more 
effective  through  the  addition  of  descriptions  of  the  wild  and  the 
melancholy  aspects  of  nature  carefully  worked  into  harmony 
with  the  general  theme.  The  selections  exhibit  these  particular 
characteristics. 

"The  Man  of  Feeling"  by  Henry  Mackenzie  (1771),  said  to 
be  the  most  sentimental  of  all  English  novels,  marks  the  ex- 
treme of  the  novel  of  feeUng.  It  reflects,  moreover,  the  various 
humanitarian  interests  and  the  revolutionary  ideals  of  the 
period.  The  selections  here  illustrate  the  formlessness,  the  char- 
acteristic philosophy,  and  the  scntimentahty  of  this  exaggerated 
example  of  the  decadent  novel. 

"The  History  of  Sandford  and  Merton"  by  Thomas  Day 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

(1783-89)  is  ostentatiously  a  novel  with  a  purpose.  The  book 
represents  still  another  phase  of  the  Romantic  Movement: 
the  humanitarian  interest,  given  special  impetus  by  Rousseau 
and  manifested  in  new  ideas  concerning  the  education  of  chil- 
dren, and  in  sympathy  toward  the  lower  classes,  the  lower  ani- 
mals, and  inanimate  nature  —  a  tendency  often  weakening  into 
sentimentalism.  "Sandford  and  Merton,"  following  loosely 
the  dictates  of  "Emile,"  attempts  to  show  the  superiority  of  the 
natural  method  of  education  over  that  pursued  in  the  artificial 
society  of  the  time.  In  this  respect  the  book  forms  a  good  com- 
panion piece  to  ''Nature  and  Art."  The  excerpts  deal  with 
incidents  showing  in  an  extreme  way  the  results  of  these  oppo- 
site methods  upon  the  respective  heroes  of  the  book,  Harry  Sand- 
ford  and  Tommy  Merton,  and  include  a  little  tale  offered  to  these 
young  gentlemen  for  their  moral  delectation. 

"Nature  and  Art"  by  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Inchbald  (1796),  like 
"Sandford  and  Merton,"  is  a  novel  of  purpose  representing  the 
educational  aspect  of  the  era  of  feeling.  The  two  may  well  be 
compared  as  to  situation,  character,  and  purpose.  Both  attempt 
to  expose  the  insincerity  and  greed  of  the  artificial  society  of  the 
day  as  contrasted  with  the  virtues  of  the  natura  man,  in  this 
case  a  child  unspoiled  by  conventional  training. 

"Caleb  WilHams"  by  Wilham  Godwin  (1794)  illustrates  the 
poHtical  theories  current  in  England  during  the  period  of  the 
French  Revolution.  The  feehng  which  in  these  other  novels  of 
purpose  expressed  itself  in  an  interest  in  humanitarian  move- 
ments and  in  naturalness  and  sincerity  in  education,  here  mani- 
fests itself  in  an  attack  on  the  various  forms  of  injustice  to  which 
society  is  prone,  including  the  injustice  of  man  to  man.  It  is 
particularly  the  latter  point  that  is  illustrated  in  these  selections. 


SELECTED   BIBLIOGRAPHY 


I.  GENERAL  REFERENCE  WORKS 

British  Museum  Catalogue  of  Printed  Books.    London,  1882-1889;  supplement, 

1900-1905. 
Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature,  edited  by  A.  W.  Ward  and  A.  R.  Waller, 

1907-1914  (unfinished)  ;  see  especially  Vols.  Ill,  VII,  IX,  X,  XL 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  edited  by  L.  Stephen  and  S.  Lee.    London, 

1885-1900;  supplement,  1901;  second  supplement,  1912. 
Traill,  H.  D.    Social  England.   New  edition.  London  and  New  York,  1901-1904. 


II.    THE  NOVEL,  GENERAL 

Besant,  Sir  Walter.    The  Art  of  Fiction.     A  lecture.    New  edition.    London 
and  Boston,  1884. 

BouRGET,  Paul.   "  Reflexions  sur  I'art  du  roman,"  in  fitudes  et  portraits.    Paris, 
1889. 

Brunetiere,  Ferdinand.    Le  roman  naturaliste.    Paris,  1896. 

Cross,  W.  L.    The  Development  of  the  English  Novel.     New  York,  1906.    (Bib- 
liography.) 

Dawson,  W.  J.    Makers  of  English  Fiction.    Chicago,  1905. 

DuNLOP,  J.  C.    A  History  of  Prose  Fiction,  revised  by  H.  Wilson.    London,  1906. 
(Bibliography.) 

James,  Henry.    Essay  in  rejoinder  on  "  The  Art  of  Fiction,"  in  Partial  Portraits. 
London  and  New  York,  1888. 
Notes  on  Novelists  with  Some  Other  Notes.    New  York,  19 14. 

JussERAND,  J.  J.    The  English  Novel  in  the  Time  of  Shakespeare,  translated  by 
Elizabeth  Lee.    London,  1890. 

Lanier,  Sidney.    The  English  Novel.    Revised  edition.    New  York,  1897. 

Masson,  David.  British  Novelists  and  their  Styles.    Revised  edition.  Boston,  1859. 

Matthev^^s,  Brander.    Aspects  of  Fiction.    New  York,  1896. 
The  Historical  Novel  and  Other  Essays.    New  York,  1901. 
'Morgan,  Charlotte  E.   The  Rise  of  the  Novel  of  Manners:   a  Study  of  Eng- 
lish Prose  Fiction  between  1600  and  1740,  in  Columbia  University  Studies 
in  English.    Columbia  University  Press,  New  York,  1911.    (Bibliography.) 

Perry,  Bliss.    A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction.    New  York,  1903.    (Bibliography.) 

Raleigh,  Walter.    The  English  Novel.    London,  1903. 

-Saintsbury,  George.    The  English  Novel,  in  Channels, of  English  Literature. 
New  York,  191 3. 

XV 


xvi  SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

SiMONDS,  W.  E.   An  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  English  Fiction.    Boston,  1894. 
Stevenson,  R.  L.    "'  A  Gossip  on  Romance,"  and  "  A  Humble  Remonstrance," 

in  Memories  and  Portraits. 
Stoddard,  F.  H.    The  Evolution  of  the  English  Novel.    London,  1900. 
TUCKERMAN,  Bavard.    History  of  English  Prose  Fiction.    New  York,  1882. 
Winchester,  C.  T.    Some  Principles  of  Literary  Criticism.    London  and  New 

York,  1899. 
Zola,  Emile.    Le  roman  experimental.    Paris,  1902  ;  English  translation  by  Belle 

M.  Sherman,  Cassell  Pub.  Co.,  New  York,  1894. 

in.    ROMANCE,  GREEK 

Smith,  Rev.  Rowland,  translator.    The  Greek  Romances  of  Heliodorus,  Longus, 

and  Achilles  Tatius,  translated  from  the  Greek  with  notes.    Bohn's  Library. 

London,  1901. 
Warren,  F.  M.    A  History  of  the  Novel  previous  to  the  Seventeenth  Century. 

New  York,  1895. 
Wolff,  S.  L.    The  Greek  Romances  in  Elizabethan  Prose  Fiction,  in  Studies  in 

Comparative  Literature.    Columbia  University  Press,  New  York,  1912. 

IV.    ROMANCE,  ARTHURIAN 

Ashton,  John.    Romances  of  Chivalry.    London  and  New  York,  1886. 
-  Catalogue  of  Romances  in  the  Department  of  Manuscripts  in  the  British  Museum, 
by  H.  L.  D.  Ward,  assistant  in  the  Department  of  Manuscripts.     London, 
Vol.  I,  1883;  Vol.  II,  1893;  Vol.  Ill,  by  J.  A.  Herbert,  assistant  in  the  De- 
partment of  Manuscripts,  1910. 

Early  English  Text  Society  Publications.    London,  1864 — . 

Ellis,  George.  Specimens  of  Early  English  Metrical  Romances,  London,  1805; 
revised  by  J.  O.  Halliwell,  Bohn's  Library,  1848. 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  Historia  regum  Britanniae,  edited  by  San  Marte 
(A.  Schulz),  Halle,  1854;  translated  by  J.  A.  Giles,  in  Six  Old  English 
Chronicles,  Bohn's  Library,   1896. 

Mabinogion,  best  translation  (French),  by  J.  Loth,  in  Cours  de  la  litterature 
celtique,  Paris,  1889;  EngHsh  translation  by  Lady  Charlotte  Guest,  London, 

1877. 
Sir  Thomas  Malory.    Le  Morte  Darthur,  edited  by  H.  O.  Sommer.    The  origmal 

edition  of  William  Caxton  now  reprinted  and  edited  with  an  introduction  and 

glossary.    London,  1 889-1 891. 
Marie  de  France.    Lais,  herausgeben  von  K.  Warnke.    Second  edition.    Halle, 

1900. 
Guingamor;    Lanval ;   Tyolet ;   Le  Bisclaveret.    Rendered  into  English  Prose 

from  the   French   of  Marie   de   France   and  others,  by  Jessie    L.  Weston. 

Second  impression  [London],  1910. 
Marie  de  France.     Seven  of  her  Lays  done  into  English  by  Edith  Rickert 

London,  1901. 


SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY  xvii 

RiTSON,  Joseph,   editor.    Ancient  English   Metrical   Romances,  London,  1802; 

revised  by  E.  Goldsmid,  Edinburgh,  18S4. 
For  discussion  of  the  origins  of  Arthurian  romance  see  the  following : 

Fletcher,  R.  H.     Arthurian  Material  in  the  Chronicles,  in  Harvard  Studies 

and  Notes  in  Philology  and  Literature,  Vol.  X,  1906. 
Rhys,  John.    Studies  in  the  Arthurian  Legend.    Oxford,  1891. 
ScHOFiELD,  W.  H.   English  Literature  from  the  Norman  Conquest  to  Chaucer. 
London  and  New  York,  1906.    (Bibliography.) 


V.    ELIZABETHAN  FICTION 

Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  III. 
For  Continental  influences  see  the  following: 

(Spanish)  Ordonez  de  Montalvo.   Amadis  de  Gaula,  translated  by  A.  Munday, 
1620;  abridged  by  R.  Southey,  1803;  latest  reprint,  London,  1872. 

George  of  Montemayor.    Diana,  translated  by  B.  Yong.    London,  1598. 

Diego   Hurtado   de  Mendoza.     Lazarillo  de   Tormes,   English  translation. 
New  York,  1890. 

Saavedra  Miguel  de  Cervantes.    Don  Quixote,  translated  by  John  Ormsby. 
London,  1885. 

Fitzmaurice-Kelly,  James.  A  History  of  Spanish  Literature.  New  York,  1898. 

TiCKNOR,  George.    History  of  Spanish  Literature.    Fourth  American  edition, 
corrected  and  enlarged.    Boston,  1872. 

(Italian)  Count  Baldassare  Castiglione.    II  Cortegiano,  translated  by  L.  E. 
Opdyke.    New  York,  1903. 
John  Lyly.    Works,  edited  by  R.  W.  Bond.    Oxford,  1902. 

Euphues.    The  Anatomy  of  Wit ;  Euphues  and  his  England.    In  Arber's  Eng- 
lish Reprints,  London,  1900. 

Long,  P.  W.    From  "Troilus"  to  "Euphues,"  in  Kittredge  Anniversary  Papers. 
Boston,  1913. 

Wolff,   S.  L.    "A  Source  of  'Euphues.    The  Anatomy  of  Wyt,'"  in  Modem 
Philology,  Vol.  VII,  pp.  577-585. 
Sir  Philip  Sidney.    The  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia,  edited  by  H.  O. 
Sommer,  London  and  New  York,  1891 ;  edited  by  Albert  Feuillerat,  Cam- 
bridge, the  University  Press,  1912;  edited  by  E.  A.  Baker,  London,  n.d. 

Brunhuber,  K.   Sir  Philip  Sidney's  "Arcadia  "  und  ihre  Nachlaufer.  Niirnberg, 
1903. 

Crossley,  James.    Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  the  "Arcadia."    London,  1853. 

Greenlaw,  E.  A.     Sidney's  "  Arcadia  "  as  an  Example  of  Elizabethan  Alle- 
gory, in  Kittredge  Anniversary  Papers.    Boston,  191 3. 

Greg,  W.  W.    Pastoral  Poetry  and  Pastoral  Drama.    London,  1905. 

Rennart,  H.  a.    The  Spanish  Pastoral  Romances.    Baltimore,  1892. 
Thomas  Nashe.    Works,  edited  by  Grosart.    London,  1883-1885. 

The  Unfortunate  Traveller  or  The  Life  of  Jack  Wilton,  edited  by  E.  Gosse. 
London,  1892. 


xviii  SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Aydelotte,  Frank.   Elizabethan  Rogues  and  Vagabonds,  in  Oxford  Historical 

and  Literary  Studies,  Vol.  I.    Oxford,  191 3. 
Chandler,  F.  W.    The  Literature  of  Roguery.    Boston  and  New  York,  1907. 

(Bibliography.) 
Chandler,  F.  W.    Romances  of  Roguery.    Part  I,  The  Picaresque  Novel  in 

Spain.    New  York,  1899.    (Bibliography.) 
Ford,  J.  D.  M.    Possible  Foreign  Sources  of  the  Spanish  Novel  of  Roguery, 

in  Kittredge  Anniversary  Papers.    Boston,  1913. 


VL    THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 

(See  II  of  this  bibliography,  Morgan,  C.  E.,  op.  cit.) 
John  Bunyan.   Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  VII. 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress  .  .  .  with  Grace  Abounding  and  a  Relation  of  his  Im- 
prisonment, edited  by  E.  Venables.    Oxford,  1879. 

Dowden,  Edward.    Puritan  and  Anglican.    London,  1901. 

Wharey,  J.  B.    A  Study  of  the  Sources  of  Bunyan's  Allegories.    Johns  Hop- 
kins University,  Baltimore,  1904. 
Aphr.v  Behn.    Oroonoko,  in  The  Novels  of  Mrs.  Aphra  Behn,  edited,  with  intro- 
duction, by  E.  A.  Baker.    London,  1905. 

Oroonoko,  in  Works  of  Aphra  Behn,  edited  by  Montague  Summers.    Stratford- 
upon-Avon,  1914-1915. 

Bernh.\um,  E.    Mrs.  Behn's  "  Oroonoko,"  in  Kittredge  Anniversary  Papers. 
Boston,  1913. 


VII.    THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY,  1700-1740 

Daniel  Defoe.  Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  IX;  V  of  this 
bibliography,  Chandler,  F.  W.,  op.  cit. 

Aitkin,  G.  A.    Romances  and  Narratives  of  Defoe.    London,  1895. 

The  I-ife,  Adventures,  and  Piracies  of  the  Famous  Captain  Singleton,  with  in- 
troduction by  Edward  Garnett,  Everyman's  Library;  edited,  with  introduction 
and  notes,  by  II.  H.  Sparling  in  Camelot  Series,  New  York,  1887. 

MiNTo,  William.    Defoe,  in  English  Men  of  Letters  Series.   New  York,  1879. 

Stei'HEN,  Leslie.    Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  I.    New  York,  1899. 

Trent,  W.  P.  "  Bibliographical  Notes  on  Defoe,"  in  The  Nation,No\.  LXXXIV, 
pp.  515-518;  Vol.  LXXXV,  pp.  29-32,  180-183. 

Ullrich,  H.    Robinson  und  Robinsonaden.    Weimar,  1898. 


VIII.   THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY,  1740-1800 

Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  X. 

HiLL.G.B.,  editor.  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson.  New  York,  1S91.  (See  index, Vol. VI.) 
DoBsoN,    Austin.    Eighteenth    Century  Vignettes,    New  York,    1S92;    second 
series,  New  York,  1894;  third  series,  London,  1896. 


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The  Novel  of  Manners 

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The  Diary  and  Letters  of  Madame  d'Arblay,  edited  by  A.  Dobson.  London, 
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Dob.son,  Austin.  Fanny  Burney,  in  English  Men  of  Letters  Series.  London 
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Hancock,  A.  E.    The  French  Revolution  and  the  English  Poets.    New  York, 

1899. 


SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY  xxi 

Hazlitt,  William.    The  Spirit  of  the  Age.    London,  1825. 

Henry  Mackenzie.  The  Man  of  Feehng.  New  York,  1902  ;  in  Worlds,  Edin- 
burgh, 1808. 

William  Godwin.    Caleb  Williams.  New  York,  1904;  Frederick  Warne  and  Co., 
New  York  and  London,  n.d. 
Brailsford,  H.  N.    Shelley,  Godwin,  and  their  Circle,  in  Home  University 

Library  of  Modern  Knowledge.    New  York,  1913. 
DoBsoN,  Austin.    William  Godwin,  in  Great  Writers  Series.    London,  1888. 
(Contains  bibliography  by  J.  P.  Anderson.) 

Stephen,  Leslie.    Studies  of  a  Biographer,  Vol.  III.    London,  1902. 

Thomas  Day.  The  History  of  Sandford  and  Merton.  Ninth  edition,  London, 
i8oi„3vols. ;  Philadelphia,  1870.    (Out  of  print.) 

Elizabeth  Inchbald.  Nature  and  Art.  Cassell's  National  Library.  London  and 
New  York,  1886. 

IX.    AUTHORS'  PREFACES,  DEDICATIONS,  AND  POSTSCRIPTS 

Le  Morte  Darthur  (by  Malory).    Caxton's  Preface. 

The  Arcadia  (by  Sidney).    Dedication  to  the  Countess  of  Pembroke. 

Clarissa  Harlowe  (by  Richardson).    Preface  and  Postscript. 

Joseph  Andrews  (by  Fielding).    Preface. 

The  Castle  of  Otranto  (by  Walpole).    Preface. 

The  Old  English  Baron  (by  Clara  Reeve).    Preface. ^ 

Sandford  and  Merton  (by  Day).    Preface. 

Caleb  Williams  (by  Godwin).   Preface. 

On  the  Origins  and  Progress  of  Novel-Writing  (by  Laetitia  Barbauld).  In  The 
British  Novelists ;  with  an  Essay  and  Prefaces,  Biographical  and  Critical,  by 
Mrs.  Barbauld,  Vol.  I,  pp.  1-59.    A  new  edition.    London,  1820. 

1  The  Cassell  edition,  usually  cited,  does  not  contain  the  preface :  it  may  be  found  in  the 
edition  (now  out  of  print)  published  by  Nimmo  and  Bain,  London,  18S3,  and  in  earlier  editions. 


LE   MORTE   D'ARTHUR 
SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 

BOOK  I.     CHAPTER  IV 

Of  the  Death  of  King  Uther  Pendragon 

Then  withip  two  years  King  Uther  fell  sick  of  a  great  malady. 
And  in  the  meanwhile  his  enemies  usurped  upon  him,  and  did 
a  great  battle  upon  his  men,  and  slew  many  of  his  people.  Sir, 
said  Merlin,  ye  may  not  lie  so  as  ye  do,  for  ye  must  to  the  field 
though  ye  ride  on  an  horse-litter :  for  ye  shall  never  have  the 
better  of  your  enemies  but  if  your  person  be  there,  and  then  shall 
ye  have  the  victory.  So  it  was  done  as  Merlin  had  devised,  and 
they  carried  the  king  forth  in  an  horse-litter  with  a  great  host 
towards  his  enemies.  And  at  St.  Albans  there  met  with  the 
king  a  great  host  of  the  North.  And  that  day  Sir  Ulfius  and 
Sir  Brastias  did  great  deeds  of  arms,  and  King  Uther's  men  over- 
came the  Northern  battle  and  slew  many  people,  and  put  the 
remnant  to  flight.  And  then  the  king  returned  unto  London, 
and  made  great  joy  of  his  victory.  And  then  he  fell  passing  sore 
sick,  so  that  three  days  and  three  nights  he  was  speechless : 
wherefore  all  the  barons  made  great  sorrow,  and  asked  Merhn 
what  counsel  were  best.  There  is  none  other  remedy,  said  Mer- 
lin, but  God  will  have  his  will.  But  look  ye,  all  barons,  be  before 
King  Uther  to-morn,  and  God  and  I  shall  make  him  to  speak. 
So  on  the  morn  all  the  barons  with  Merlin  came  before  the  king ; 
then  Merlin  said  aloud  unto  King  Uther,  Sir,  shall  your  son 
Arthur  be  king  after  your  days,  of  this  realm  with  all  the  appur- 
tenance ?  Then  Uther  Pendragon  turned  him,  and  said  in  hear- 
ing of  them  all,  I  give  him  God's  blessing  and  mine,  and  bid  him 
pray  for  my  soul,  and  righteously  and  worshipfully  that  he  claim 


2  SIR  THOMAS   MALORY 

the  crown  upon  forfeiture  of  my  blessing;  and  therewith  he 
yielded  up  the  ghost,  and  then  was  he  interred  as  longed  to  a 
king.  Wherefore  the  queen,  fair  Igraine,  made  great  sorrow, 
and  all  the  barons. 


CHAPTER  V 

How  Arthur  was  chosen  King,  and  of  Wonders  and  Marvels 
OF  A  Sword  taken  out  of  a  Stone  by  the  Said  Arthur 

Then  stood  the  realm  in  great  jeopardy  long  while,  for  every 
lord  that  was  mighty  of  men  made  him  strong,  and  many  weened 
to  have  been  king.  Then  Merhn  went  to  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  and  counselled  him  for  to  send  for  all  the  lords  of 
the  realm,  and  all  the  gentlemen  of  arms,  that  they  should  to 
London  come  by  Christmas,  upon  pain  of  cursing ;  and  for  this 
cause,  that  Jesus,  that  was  born  on  that  night,  that  he  would  of 
his  great  mercy  show  some  miracle,  as  he  was  come  to  be  king  of 
mankind,  for  to  show  some  miracle  who  should  be  rightways 
king  of  this  realm.  So  the  Archbishop,  by  the  advice  of  Merlin, 
sent  for  all  the  lords  and  gentlemen  of  arms  that  they  should 
come  by  Christmas  even  unto  London.  And  many  of  them  made 
them  clean  of  their  life,  that  their  prayer  might  be  the  more 
acceptable  unto  God.  So  in  the  greatest  church  of  London, 
whether  it  were  Paul's  or  not  the  French  book  maketh  no  men- 
tion, all  the  estates  were  long  or  day  in  the  church  for  to  pray. 
And  when  matins  and  the  first  mass  was  done,  there  was  seen 
in  the  churchyard,  against  the  high  altar,  a  great  stone  four 
square,  like  unto  a  marble  stone,  and  in  midst  thereof  was  Ukc 
an  anvil  of  steel  a  foot  on  high,  and  therein  stuck  a  fair  sword 
naked  by  the  point,  and  letters  there  were  written  in  gold  about 
the  sword  that  said  thus :  -  -  Whoso  pulleth  out  this  sword  of 
this  stone  and  anvil,  is  rightwise  king  born  of  all  England.  Then 
the  people  marvelled,  and  told  it  to  the  Archbishop.  I  command, 
said  the  Archbishop,  that  ye  keep  you  within  your  church, 
and  pray  unto  God  still;  that  no  man  touch  the  sword  till  the 
high  mass  be  all  done.  So  when  all  masses  were  done  all  the 
lords  went  to  behold  the  stone  and  the  sword.     And  when  they 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  3 

saw  the  scripture,  some  assayed  ;  such  as  would  have  been  king. 
But  none  might  stir  the  sword  nor  move  it.  He  is  not  here,  said 
the  Archbishop,  that  shall  achieve  the  sword,  but  doubt  not  God 
will  make  him  known.  But  this  is  my  counsel,  said  the  Arch- 
bishop, that  we  let  purvey  ten  knights,  men  of  good  fame,  and 
they  to  keep  this  sword.  So  it  was  ordained,  and  then  there  was 
made  a  cry,  that  every  man  should  essay  that  would,  for  to  win 
the  sword.  And  upon  New  Year's  Day  the  barons  let  make  a 
jousts  and  a  tournament,  that  all  knights  that  would  joust  or 
tourney  there  might  play,  and  all  this  was  ordained  for  to  keep 
the  lords  and  the  commons  together,  for  the  Archbishop  trusted 
that  God  would  make  him  known  that  should  win  the  sword. 
So  upon  New  Year's  Day,  when  the  service  was  done,  the  barons 
rode  unto  the  field,  some  to  joust  and  some  to  tourney,  and  so  it 
happened  that  Sir  Ector,  that  had  great  livehhood  about  London, 
rode  unto  the  jousts,  and  with  him  rode  Sir  Kay  his  son,  and  young 
Arthur  ^  that  was  his  nourished  brother ;  and  Sir  Kay  was  made 
knight  at  All  Hallowmass  afore.  So  as  they  rode  to  the  jousts- 
ward.  Sir  Kay  had  lost  his  sword,  for  he  had  left  it  at  his  father's 
lodging,  and  so  he  prayed  young  Arthur  for  to  ride  for  his  sword. 
I  will  well,  said  Arthur,  and  rode  fast  after  the  sword,  and  when 
he  came  home,  the  lady  and  all  were  out  to  see  the  jousting. 
Then  was  Arthur  wroth,  and  said  to  himself,  I  will  ride  to  the 
churchyard,  and  take  the  sword  with  me  that  sticketh  in  the 
stone,  for  my  brother  Sir  Kay  shall  not  be  without  a  sword  this 
day.  So  when  he  came  to  the  churchyard.  Sir  Arthur  aht  and 
tied  his  horse  to  the  stile,  and  so  he  went  to  the  tent,  and  found 
no  knights  there,  for  they  were  at  jousting ;  and  so  he  handled 
the  sword  by  the  handles,  and  Hghtly  and  fiercely  pulled  it  out  of 
the  stone,  and  took  his  horse  and  rode  his  way  until  he  came  to 
his  brother  Sir  Kay,  and  delivered  him  the  sword.  And  as  soon 
as  Sir  Kay  saw  the  sword,  he  wist  well  it  was  the  sword  of  the 
stone,  and  so  he  rode  to  his  father  Sir  Ector,  and  said :  Sir,  lo 
here  is  the  sword  of  the  stone,  wherefore  I  must  be  king  of  this 
land.  When  Sir  Ector  beheld  the  sword,  he  returned  again 
and  came  to  the  church,  and  there  they  aht  all  three,  and  went 

^  Arthur,  after  his  birth,  was  taken  by  Merlin  to  Sir  Ector   to  be  reared  as  the 
knight's  foster  son. 


4  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

into  the  church.  And  anon  he  made  Sir  Kay  to  swear  upon  a 
book  how  he  came  to  that  sword.  Sir,  said  Sir  Kay,  by  my 
brother  Arthur,  for  he  brought  it  to  me.  How  gat  ye  this  sword  ? 
said  Sir  Ector  to  Arthur.  Sir,  I  will  tell  you.  When  I  came 
home  for  my  brother's  sword,  I  found  nobody  at  home  to  deliver 
me  his  sword,  and  so  I  thought  my  brother  Sir  Kay  should  not 
be  swordless,  and  so  I  came  hither  eagerly  and  pulled  it  out  of 
the  stone  without  any  pain.  Found  ye  any  knights  about  this 
sword  ?  said  Sir  Ector.  Nay,  said  Arthur.  Now,  said  Sir  Ector 
to  Arthur,  I  understand  ye  must  be  king  of  this  land.  Where- 
fore I,  said  Arthur,  and  for  what  cause?  Sir,  said  Ector,  for 
God  will  have  it  so,  for  there  should  never  man  have  drawn  out 
this  sword,  but  he  that  shall  be  rightways  king  of  this  land.  Now 
let  me  see  whether  ye  can  put  the  sword  there  as  it  was,  and  pull 
it  out  again.  That  is  no  mastery,  said  Arthur,  and  so  he  put  it 
in  the  stone,  therewithal  Sir  Ector  essayed  to  pull  out  the  sword 
and  failed. 


CHAPTER  VI 

How  King  Arthur  pulled  out  the  Sword  Divers  Times 

Now  assay,  said  Sir  Ector  unto  Sir  Kay.  And  anon  he  pulled 
at  the  sword  with  all  his  might,  but  it  would  not  be.  Now  shall 
ye  essay,  said  Sir  Ector  to  Arthur.  I  will  well,  said  Arthur,  and 
pulled  it  out  easily.  And  therewithal  Sir  Ector  knelt  down  to 
the  earth,  and  Sir  Kay.  Alas,  said  Arthur,  my  own  dear  father 
and  brother,  why  kneel  ye  to  me  ?  Nay,  nay,  my  lord  Arthur, 
it  is  not  so,  I  was  never  your  father  nor  of  your  blood,  but  I  wot 
well  ye  are  of  an  higher  blood  than  I  weened  ye  were.  And  then 
Sir  Ector  told  him  all,  how  he  was  bitaken  him  for  to  nourish 
him,  and  by  whose  commandment,  and  by  Merlin's  deliverance. 
Then  Arthur  made  great  doole  when  he  understood  that  Sir 
Ector  was  not  his  father.  Sir,  said  Ector  unto  Arthur,  will 
ye  be  my  good  and  gracious  lord  when  ye  arc  king  ?  Else  were 
I  to  l)lamc,  said  Arthur,  for  ye  are  tlie  man  in  the  world  that  I 
am  most  beholden  to,  and  m\-  good  lad}'  and  mother  your  wife, 
that  as  well  as  her  own  hath  fostered  me  and  kept.     And  if  ever 


LE    MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  5 

it  be  God's  will  that  I  be  king  as  ye  say,  ye  shall  desire  of  me  what 
I  may  do,  and  I  shall  not  fail  you,  God  forbid  I  should  fail  you. 
Sir,  said  Sir  Ector,  I  will  ask  no  more  of  you,  but  that  ye  will 
make  my  son,  your  foster  brother.  Sir  Kay,  seneschal  of  all  your 
lands.  That  shall  be  done,  said  Arthur,  and  more,  by  the  faith 
of  my  body,  that  never  man  shall  have  that  office  but  he,  while 
he  and  I  live.  Therewithal  they  went  unto  the  Archbishop, 
and  told  him  how  the  sword  was  achieved,  and  by  whom ;  and 
on  Twelfth-day  all  the  barons  came  thither,  and  to  essay  to  take 
the  sword,  who  that  would  essay.  But  there  afore  them  all 
there  might  none  take  it  out  but  Arthur ;  wherefore  there  were 
many  lords  wroth,  and  said  it  was  great  shame  unto  them  all, 
and  the  realm,  to  be  over-governed  with  a  boy  of  no  high  blood 
born,  and  so  they  fell  out  at  that  time  that  it  was  put  off  till 
Candlemas,  and  then  all  the  barons  should  meet  there  again  ;  but 
always  the  ten  knights  were  ordained  to  watch  the  sword  day 
and  night,  and  so  they  set  a  pavilion  over  the  stone  and  the  sword, 
and  five  always  watched.  So  at  Candlemas  many  more  great 
lords  came  thither  for  to  have  won  the  sword,  but  there  might 
none  prevail.  And  right  as  Arthur  did  at  Christmas,  he  did  at 
Candlemas,  and  pulled  out  the  sword  easily,  whereof  the  barons 
were  sore  agrieved  and  put  it  off  in  delay  till  the  high  feast  of 
Easter.  And  as  Arthur  sped  before,  so  did  he  at  Easter,  yet 
there  were  some  of  the  great  lords  had  indignation  that  Arthur 
should  be  king,  and  put  it  off  in  a  delay,  till  the  feast  of  Pentecost. 
Then  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  by  Merlyn's  providence  let 
purvey  then  of  the  best  knights  that  they  might  get,  and  such 
knights  as  Uther  Pendragon  loved  best  and  most  trusted  in  his 
days.  And  such  knights  were  put  about  Arthur  as  Sir  Baudwin 
of  Britain,  Sir  Kay,  Sir  Ulfius,  Sir  Brastias.  All  these  with 
many  other,  were  always  about  Arthur,  day  and  night,  till  the 
feast  of  Pentecost. 

CHAPTER  VII 

How  King  Arthur  was  crowned,  and  how  he  made  Officers 

And  at  the  feast  of  Pentecost  all  manner  of  men  essayed  to 
pull  at  the  sword  that  would  essay,  but  none  might  prevail  but 


6  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

Arthur,  and  pulled  it  out  afore  all  the  lords  and  commons  that 
were  there,  wherefore  all  the  commons  cried  at  once,  We  will 
have  Arthur  unto  our  king,  we  will  put  him  no  more  in  delay, 
for  we  all  see  that  it  is  God's  will  that  he  shall  be  our  king,  and 
who  that  holdeth  against  it,  we  will  slay  him.  And  therewith 
they  all  kneeled  at  once,  both  rich  and  poor,  and  cried  Arthur 
mercy  because  they  had  delayed  him  so  long,  and  Arthur  forgave 
them,  and  took  the  sword  between  both  his  hands,  and  offered 
it  upon  the  altar  where  the  Archbishop  was,  and  so  was  he  made 
knight  of  the  best  man  that  was  there.  And  so  anon  was  the 
coronation  made.  And  there  was  he  sworn  unto  his  lords 
and  the  commons  for  to  be  a  true  king,  to  stand  with  true  jus- 
tice from  thenceforth  the  days  of  this  Hfe.  Also  then  he  made 
all  lords  that  held  of  the  crown  to  come  in,  and  to  do  service  as 
they  ought  to  do.  And  many  complaints  were  made  unto  Sir 
Arthur  of  great  wrongs  that  were  done  since  the  death  of  King 
Uther,  of  many  lands  that  were  bereaved  lords,  knights,  ladies, 
and  gentlemen.  Wherefore  King  Arthur  made  the  lands  to  be 
given  again  unto  them  that  owned  them.  When  this  was  done, 
that  the  king  had  stablished  all  the  countries  about  London, 
then  he  let  make  Sir  Kay  seneschal  of  England  ;  and  Sir  Baudwin 
of  Britain  was  made  constable  ;  and  Sir  Ulfius  was  made  chamber- 
lain ;  and  Sir  Brastias  was  made  warden  to  wait  upon  the  north 
from  Trent  forwards,  for  it  was  that  time  the  most  part  the 
king's  enemies.  But  within  few  years  after,  Arthur  won  all  the 
north,  Scotland,  and  all  that  were  under  their  obeissance.  Also 
Wales,  a  part  of  it  held  against  Arthur,  but  he  overcame  them 
all,  as  he  did  the  remnant,  through  the  noble  prowess  of  himself 
and  his  knights  of  the  Round  Table. 

CHAPTER   XXV 

How  Arthur  by  the  Mean  of  Merlin  gat  Excalibur  his  Sword 
OF  THE  Lady  of  the  Lake 

Right  so  the  king  and  he^  departed,  and  went  unto  an  hermit 
that  was  a  good  man  and  a  great  leech.     So  the  hermit  searched 

'  Merlin. 


LE   MORTE   D'ARTHUR  7 

all  his  wounds  and  gave  him  good  salves ;  so  the  king  was  there 
three  days,  and  then  were  his  wounds  well  amended  that  he 
might  ride  and  go,  and  so  departed.  And  as  they  rode,  Arthur 
said,  I  have  no  sword. ^  No  force,  said  Merlin,  hereby  is  a  sword 
that  shall  be  yours,  an  I  may.  So  they  rode  till  they  came  to  a 
lake,  the  which  was  a  fair  water  and  broad,  and  in  the  midst  of 
the  lake  Arthur  was  ware  of  an  arm  clothed  in  white  samite,  that 
held  a  fair  sword  in  that  hand.  Lo  !  said  Merlin,  yonder  is  that 
sword  that  I  spake  of.  With  that  they  saw  a  damosel  going 
upon  the  lake.  What  damosel  is  that?  said  Arthur.  That  is 
the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  said  Merlin ;  and  within  that  lake  is  a 
rock,  and  therein  is  as  fair  a  place  as  any  on  earth,  and  richly 
beseen ;  and  this  damosel  will  come  to  you  anon,  and  then  speak 
ye  fair  to  her  that  she  will  give  you  that  sword.  Anon  withal 
came  the  damosel  unto  Arthur,  and  saluted  him,  and  he  her 
again.  Damosel,  said  Arthur,  what  sword  is  that,  that  yonder  the 
arm  holdeth  above  the  water  ?  I  would  it  were  mine,  for  I  have 
no  sword.  Sir  Arthur,  king,  said  the  damosel,  that  sword  is 
mine,  and  if  ye  will  give  me  a  gift  when  I  ask  it  you,  ye  shall 
have  it.  By  my  faith,  said  Arthur,  I  will  give  you  what  gift 
ye  will  ask.  Well  !  said  the  damosel,  go  ye  into  yonder  barge, 
and  row  yourself  to  the  sword,  and  take  it  and  the  scabbard  with 
you,  and  I  will  ask  my  gift  when  I  see  my  time.  So  Sir  Arthur 
and  Merlin  alit  and  tied  their  horses  to  two  trees,  and  so  they 
went  into  the  ship,  and  when  they  came  to  the  sword  that  the 
hand  held.  Sir  Arthur  took  it  up  by  the  handles,  and  took  it  with 
him,  and  the  arm  and  the  hand  went  under  the  water.  And  so 
they  came  unto  the  land  and  rode  forth. 

BOOK   III.     CHAPTER  I 

How   King   Arthur    took   a   Wife,    and    wedded    Guenever, 
Daughter  to  Leodegrance,  King  of  the  Land  or  Cameliard, 

WITH  WHOM  he  had  THE  RoUND  TaBLE 

In  the  beginning  of  Arthur,  after  he  was  chosen  king  by  ad- 
venture and  by  grace  ;  for  the  most  part  of  the  barons  knew  not 

^  Arthur  had  broken  his  sword  in  an  encounter  with  King  Pellinore. 


S  SIR  THOMAS   MALORY 

that  he  was  Uther  Pendragon's  son,  but  as  Merlin  made  it  openly 
known.  But  yet  many  kings  and  lords  held  great  war  against 
him  for  that  cause,  but  well  Arthur  overcame  them  all,  for  the 
most  part  the  days  of  his  hfe  he  was  ruled  much  by  the  counsel 
of  Merhn.  So  it  fell  on  a  time  King  Arthur  said  unto  Merlin, 
My  barons  will  let  me  have  no  rest,  but  needs  I  must  take  a  wife, 
and  I  will  none  take  but  by  thy  counsel  and  by  thine  advice.  It 
is  well  done,  said  MerHn,  that  ye  take  a  wife,  for  a  man  of  your 
bounty  and  noblesse  should  not  be  without  a  wife.  Now  is 
there  any  that  ye  love  more  than  another  ?  Yea,  said  King 
Arthur,  I  love  Guenever  the  king's  daughter,  Leodegrance  of  the 
land  of  Cameliard,  the  which  holdeth  in  his  house  the  Table 
Round  that  ye  told  he  had  of  my  father  Uther.  And  this  damo- 
sel  is  the  most  vahant  and  fairest  lady  that  I  know  living,  or 
yet  that  ever  I  could  find.  Sir,  said  Merlin,  as  of  her  beauty  and 
fairness  she  is  one  of  the  fairest  on  live,  but,  an  ye  loved  her 
not  so  well  as  ye  do,  I  should  find  you  a  damosel  of  beauty  and 
of  goodness  that  should  hke  you  and  please  you,  an  your  heart 
were  not  set ;  but  there  as  a  man's  heart  is  set,  he  will  be  loth  to 
return.  That  is  truth,  said  King  Arthur.  But  Merlin  warned 
the  king  covertly  that  Guenever  was  not  wholesome  for  him  to 
take  to  wife,  for  he  warned  him  that  Launcelot  should  love  her, 
and  she  him  again ;  and  so  he  turned  his  tale  to  the  adventures 
of  Sangreal.  Then  Merhn  desired  of  the  king  for  to  have  men 
with  him  that  should  enquire  of  Guenever,  and  so  the  king 
granted  him,  and  MerUn  went  forth  unto  King  Leodegrance  of 
CameHard,  and  told  him  of  the  desire  of  the  king  that  he  would 
have  unto  his  wife  Guenever  his  daughter.  That  is  to  me,  said 
King  Leodegrance,  the  best  tidings  that  ever  I  heard,  that  so 
worthy  a  king  of  prowess  and  noblesse  will  wed  my  daughter. 
And  as  for  my  lands,  I  will  give  him,  wist  I  it  might  please  him, 
but  he  hath  lands  enow,  him  needeth  none,  but  I  shall  send  him 
a  gift  shall  please  him  much  more,  for  I  shall  give  him  the  Table 
Round,  the  which  Uther  Pendragon  gave  me,  and  when  it  is 
full  complete,  there  is  an  hundred  knights  and  fifty.  And  as 
for  an  hundred  good  knights  I  have  myself,  but  I  fawte  fifty,  for 
so  many  have  been  slain  in  my  days.  And  so  Leodegrance  de- 
Hvercd  his  daughter  Guenever  unto  Merhn,  and  the  Table  Round 

• 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  9 

with  the  hundred  knights,  and  so  they  rode  freshly,  with  great 
royalty,  what  by  water  and  what  by  land,  till  that  they  came 
nigh  unto  London. 

CHAPTER  II 

How  THE  Knights  of  the   Round  Table  were  ordained  and 
THEIR  Sieges  blessed  by  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury 

When  King  Arthur  heard  of  the  coming  of  Guenever  and  the 
hundred  knights  with  the  Table  Round,  then  King  Arthur 
made  great  joy  for  her  coming,  and  that  rich  present,  and  said 
openly,  This  fair  lady  is  passing  welcome  unto  me,  for  I  have 
loved  her  long,  and  therefore  there  is  nothing  so  hef  to  me.  And 
these  knights  with  the  Round  Table  please  me  more  than  right 
great  riches.  And  in  all  haste  the  king  let  ordain  for  the  mar- 
riage and  the  coronation  in  the  most  honourable  wise  that  could 
be  devised.  Now,  MerHn,  said  King  Arthur,  go  thou  and  espy 
me  in  all  this  land  fifty  knights  which  be  of  most  prowess  and 
worship.  Within  short  time  MerUn  had  found  such  knights 
that  should  fulfil  twenty  and  eight  knights,  but  no  more  he  could 
find.  Then  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury  was  fetched,  and  he 
blessed  the  sieges  with  great  royalty  and  devotion,  and  there 
set  the  eight  and  twenty  knights  in  their  sieges.  And  when 
this  was  done  MerHn  said,  Fair  sirs,  you  must  all  arise  and 
come  to  King  Arthur  for  to  do  him  homage ;  he  will  have  the 
better  will  to  maintain  you.  And  so  they  arose  and  did  their 
homage,  and  when  they  were  gone  Merhn  found  in  every  sieges 
letters  of  gold  that  told  the  knights'  names  that  had  sitten 
therein.  But  two  sieges  were  void.  And  so  anon  came  young 
Gawaine  and  asked  the  king  a  gift.  Ask,  said  the  king,  and  I 
shall  grant  it  you.  Sir,  I  ask  that  ye  will  make  me  knight  that 
same  day  ye  shall  wed  fair  Guenever.  I  will  do  it  with  a  good 
will,  said  King  Arthur,  and  do  unto  you  all  the  worship  that  I 
may,  for  I  must  by  reason  ye  are  my  nephew,  my  sister's  son. 


10  SIR  THOMAS   MALORY 

BOOK  XIII.     CHAPTER  VII 

How    *   *   *   All    the    Knights    were   replenished   with    the 
Holy  Sangreal,  and  how  they  avowed  the  Enquest  of 

THE  Same 

*  *  *  1  js^^^  ^j^gjj  ^Yie  king  and  all  estates  went  home  unto  Came- 
lot,  and  so  went  to  even  song  to  the  great  minster,  and  so  after 
upon  that  to  supper,  and  every  knight  sat  in  his  own  place  as  they 
were  toforehand.  Then  anon  they  heard  cracking  and  crying 
of  thunder,  that  them  thought  the  place  should  all  to  drive. 
In  the  midst  of  this  blast  entered  a  sunbeam  more  clearer  by 
seven  times  than  ever  they  saw  day,  and  all  they  were  alighted 
of  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Then  began  every  knight  to 
behold  other,  and  either  saw  other,  by  their  seeming,  fairer  than 
ever  they  saw  afore.  Not  for  then  there  was  no  knight  might 
speak  one  word  a  great  while,  and  so  they  looked  every  man  on 
other  as  they  had  been  dumb.  Then  there  entered  into  the  hall 
the  Holy  Greal  covered  with  white  samite,  but  there  was  none 
might  see  it,  nor  who  bare  it.  And  there  was  all  the  hall  fulfilled 
with  good  odours,  and  every  knight  had  such  meats  and  drinks 
as  he  best  loved  in  this  world.  And  when  the  Holy  Greal  had 
been  borne  through  the  hall,  then  the  Holy  Vessel  departed  sud- 
denly, that  they  wist  not  where  it  became :  then  had  they  all 
breath  to  speak.  And  then  the  king  yielded  thankings  to  God, 
of  His  good  grace  that  he  had  sent  them.  Certes,  said  the  king, 
we  ought  to  thank  our  Lord  Jesu  greatly  for  that  he  hath 
shewed  us  this  day,  at  the  reverence  of  this  high  feast  of  Pente- 
cost. Now,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  we  have  been  served  this  day  of 
what  meats  and  drinks  we  thought  on ;  but  one  thing  beguiled 
us,  we  might  not  see  the  holy  Grail,  it  was  so  preciously  covered. 

*  Omissions  are  indicated  by  asterisks  only  where  the  continuity  of  the  narrative  seems 
to  require  it.  Where  the  story  runs  smoothly  in  spite  of  an  omission,  the  break  is  not 
generally  indicated.  It  seemed  best  to  follow  this  practice  because  omissions  in  some  of  the 
selections,  especially  those  from  the  "Arcadia"  and  "Clarissa"  are  very  numerous,  consisting 
often  in  the  cutting  out  of  only  a  word  or  phrase.  It  was  felt,  therefore,  that  the  use  of  the 
asterisk  in  sometimes  as  many  as  five  or  six  places  in  one  page  would  prove  unnecessarily 
disconcerting  to  the  student.  Since  the  chapter  headings  have  in  all  cases  where  they 
appear  in  the  full  text,  been  retained,  and  since  reliable  editions  have  been  listed  in  the 
bibliography,  the  student,  if  he  so  desires,  can  without  much  trouble  ascertain  for  himself 
what  portions  of  the  texts  have  been  omitted. 


LE   MORTE   D'ARTHUR  ii 

Wherefore  I  will  make  here  avow,  that  to-morn,  without  longer 
abiding,  I  shall  labour  in  the  quest  of  the  Sangreal,  that  I  shall 
hold  me  out  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  or  more  if  need  be,  and 
never  shall  I  return  again  unto  the  court  till  I  have  seen  it  more 
openly  than  it  hath  been  seen  here ;  and  if  I  may  not  speed  I 
shall  return  again  as  he  that  may  not  be  against  the  will  of  our 
Lord  Jesu  Christ.  When  they  of  the  Table  Round  heard  Sir 
Gawaine  say  so,  they  arose  up  the  most  part  and  made  such  avows 
as  Sir  Gawaine  had  made.  Anon  as  King  Arthur  heard  this  he 
was  greatly  displeased,  for  he  wist  well  they  might  not  again 
say  their  avows.  Alas,  said  King  Arthur  unto  Sir  Gawaine,  ye 
have  nigh  slain  me  with  the  avow  and  promise  that  ye  have 
made ;  for  through  you  ye  have  bereft  me  the  fairest  fellowship 
and  the  truest  of  knighthood  that  ever  were  seen  together  in 
any  realm  of  the  world ;  for  when  they  depart  from  hence  I  am 
sure  they  all  shall  never  meet  more  in  this  world,  for  they  shall 
die  many  in  the  quest.  And  so  it  forthinketh  me  a  httle,  for  I 
have  loved  them  as  well  as  my  Ufe,  wherefore  it  shall  grieve  me 
right  sore,  the  departition  of  this  fellowship:  for  I  have  had  an 
old  custom  to  have  them  in  my  fellowship. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

How  Great  Sorrow  was  made  of  the  King  and  the  Queen  and 

Ladies  for  the  Departing  of  the  Knights,  and  how 

THEY  Departed 

And  therewith  the  tears  filled  in  his  eyes.  And  then  he  said  : 
Gawaine,  Gawaine,  ye  have  set  me  in  great  sorrow,  for  I  have 
great  doubt  that  my  true  fellowship  shall  never  meet  here  more 
again.  Ah,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  comfort  yourself ;  for  it  shall  be 
unto  us  a  great  honour  and  much  more  than  if  we  died  in  any 
other  places,  for  of  death  we  be  siccar.  Ah,  Launcelot,  said  the 
king,  the  great  love  that  I  have  had  unto  you  all  the  days  of  my 
hfe  maketh  me  to  say  such  doleful  words ;  for  never  Christian 
king  had  never  so  many  worthy  men  at  his  table  as  I  have  had 
this  day  at  the  Round  Table,  and  that  is  my  great  sorrow.     When 


12  SIR  THOMAS   MALORY 

the  queen,  ladies,  and  gentlewomen,  wist  these  tidings,  they 
had  such  sorrow  and  heaviness  that  there  might  no  tongue  tell 
it,  for  those  knights  had  held  them  in  honour  and  charity. 
But  among  all  other  Queen  Guenever  made  great  sorrow.  I 
marvel,  said  she,  my  lord  would  suffer  them  to  depart  from  him. 
Thus  was  all  the  court  troubled  for  the  love  of  the  departition 
of  those  knights.  And  many  of  those  ladies  that  loved  knights 
would  have  gone  with  their  lovers ;  and  so  had  they  done,  had 
not  an  old  knight  come  among  them  in  reUgious  clothing ;  and 
then  he  spake  all  on  high  and  said  :  Fair  lords,  which  have  sworn 
in  the  quest  of  the  Sangreal,  thus  sendeth  you  Nacien,  the  hermit, 
word,  that  none  in  this  quest  lead  lady  nor  gentlewoman  with 
him,  for  it  is  not  to  do  in  so  high  a  service  as  they  labour  in ; 
for  I  warn  you  plain,  he  that  is  not  clean  of  his  sins  he  shall  not 
see  the  mysteries  of  our  Lord  Jesu  Christ.  And  for  this  cause 
they  left  these  ladies  and  gentlewomen.  After  this  the  queen 
came  unto  Galahad  and  asked  him  of  whence  he  was,  and  of 
what  country.  He  told  her  of  whence  he  was.  And  son  unto 
Launcelot,  she  said  he  was.  As  to  that,  he  said  neither  yea  or 
nay.  So  God  me  help,  said  the  queen,  of  your  father  ye  need 
not  to  shame  you,  for  he  is  the  goodhest  knight,  and  of  the  best 
men  of  the  world  come,  and  of  the  strain,  of  all  parties,  of  kings. 
Wherefore  ye  ought  of  right  to  be,  of  your  deeds,  a  passing  good 
man  ;  and  certainly,  she  said,  ye  resemble  him  much.  Then  Sir 
Galahad  was  a  little  ashamed  and  said :  Madam,  sith  ye  .know 
in  certain,  wherefore  do  ye  ask  it  me  ?  for  he  that  is  my  father 
shall  be  known  openly  and  all  betimes.  And  then  they  went 
to  rest  them.  And  in  the  honour  of  the  highness  of  Galahad  he 
was  led  into  King  Arthur's  chamber,  and  there  rested  in  his  own 
bed.  And  as  soon  as  it  was  day  the  king  arose,  for  he  had  no 
rest  of  all  that  night  for  sorrow.  Then  he  went  unto  Gawaine 
and  to  Sir  Launcelot  that  were  arisen  for  to  hear  mass.  And  then 
the  king  again  said :  Ah,  Gawaine,  Gawaine,  ye  have  betrayed 
me ;  for  never  shall  my  court  be  amended  by  you,  but  ye  will 
never  be  sorry  for  me  as  I  am  for  you.  And  therewith  the  tears 
began  to  run  down  by  his  visage.  And  therewith  the  king  said : 
Ah,  knight  Sir  Launcelot,  I  require  thee  thou  counsel  me,  for 
I  would  that  this  quest  were  undone  an  it  might  be.     Sir,  said 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR 


13 


Sir  Launcelot,  ye  saw  yesterday  so  many  worthy  knights  that 
then  were  sworn  that  they  may  not  leave  it  in  no  manner  of 
wise.  That  wot  I  well,  said  the  king,  but  it  shall  so  heavy  me 
at  their  departing  that  I  wot  well  there  shall  no  manner  of  joy 
remedy  me.  And  then  the  king  and  the  queen  went  unto  the 
minster.  So  anon  Launcelot  and  Gawaine  commanded  their 
men  to  bring  their  arms.  And  when  they  all  were  armed  save 
their  shields  and  their  helms,  then  they  came  to  their  fellowship, 
which  were  all  ready  in  the  same  wise,  for  to  go  to  the  minster 
to  hear  their  service.  Then  after  the  service  was  done  the  king 
would  wit  how  many  had  undertaken  the  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail ; 
and  to  account  them  he  prayed  them  all.  Then  found  they 
by  tale  an  hundred  and  fifty,  and  all  were  knights  of  the  Round 
Table.  And  then  they  put  on  their  helms  and  departed,  and 
recommended  them  all  wholly  unto  the  queen ;  and  there  was 
weeping  and  great  sorrow.  Then  the  queen  departed  into  her 
chamber  so  that  no  man  should  apperceive  her  great  sorrows. 
When  Sir  Launcelot  missed  the  queen  he  went  into  her  chamber, 
and  when  she  saw  him  she  cried  aloud  :  O  Sir  Launcelot,  ye  have 
betrayed  me  and  put  me  to  death,  for  to  leave  thus  my  lord. 
Ah,  madam,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  I  pray  you  be  not  displeased, 
for  I  shall  come  as  soon  as  I  may  with  my  worship.  Alas,  said 
she,  that  ever  I  saw  you ;  but  he  that  suffered  death  upon  the 
cross  for  all  mankind  be  to  you  good  conduct  and  safety,  and  all 
the  whole  fellowship.  Right  so  departed  Sir  Launcelot,  and 
found  his  fellowship  that  abode  his  coming.  And  so  they 
mounted  upon  their  horses  and  rode  through  the  streets  of  Game- 
lot  ;  and  there  was  weeping  of  the  rich  and  poor,  and  the  king 
turned  away  and  might  not  speak  for  weeping.  So  within  a 
while  they  came  to  a  city,  and  a  castle  that  hight  Vagon.  There 
they  entered  into  the  castle,  and  the  lord  of  that  castle  was  an 
old  man  that  hight  Vagon,  and  he  was  a  good  man  of  his  living, 
and  set  open  the  gates,  and  made  them  all  the  good  cheer  that 
he  might.  And  so  on  the  morrow  they  were  all  accorded  that 
they  should  depart  every  each  from  other ;  and  then  they 
departed  on  the  morrow  with  weeping  and  mourning  cheer,  and 
every  knight  took  the  way  that  him  best  liked. 


14  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

BOOK  XVII.     CHAPTER  XIII 

How  Sir  Launcelot  entered  into  the  Ship  where  Sir  Percivale's 
Sister  lay  dead,  and  how  he  met  with  Sir  Galahad, 

his  Son 

Now  saith  the  history,  that  when  Launcelot  was  come  to  the 
water  of  Mortoise,  as  it  is  rehearsed  before,  he  was  in  great 
peril,  and  so  he  laid  him  down  and  slept,  and  took  the  adven- 
ture that  God  would  send  him.  So  when  he  was  asleep  there 
came  a  vision  unto  him  and  said :  Launcelot,  arise  up  and  take 
thine  armour,  and  enter  into  the  first  ship  that  thou  shalt  find. 
And  when  he  heard  these  words  he  start  up  and  saw  great  clere- 
ness  about  him.  And  then  he  lift  up  his  hand  and  blessed  him, 
and  so  took  his  arms  and  made  him  ready  ;  and  so  by  adventure 
he  came  by  a  strand,  and  found  a  ship  the  which  was  without  sail 
or  oar.  And  as  soon  as  he  was  within  the  ship  there  he  felt  the 
most  sweetness  that  ever  he  felt,  and  he  was  fulfilled  with  all 
thing  that  he  thought  on  or  desired.  Then  he  said  :  Fair  sweet 
Father,  Jesu  Christ,  I  wot  not  in  what  joy  I  am,  for  this  joy 
passeth  all  earthly  joys  that  ever  I  was  in.  And  so  in  this  joy 
he  laid  him  down  to  the  ship's  board,  and  slept  till  day.  And 
when  he  awoke  he  found  there  a  fair  bed,  and  therein  dying  a 
gentlewoman  dead,  the  which  was  Sir  Percivale's  sister.  And 
as  Launcelot  devised  her,  he  espied  in  her  right  hand  a  writ, 
the  which  he  read,  the  which  told  him  all  the  adventures  that 
ye  have  heard  tofore,  and  of  what  lineage  she  was  come.  So 
with  this  gentlewoman  Sir  Launcelot  was  a  month  and  more. 
If  ye  would  ask  how  he  lived,  He  that  fed  the  people  of  Israel  with 
manna  in  the  desert,  so  was  he  fed ;  for  every  day  when  he  had 
said  his  prayers  he  was  sustained  with  the  grace  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  So  on  a  night  he  went  to  play  him  by  the  water  side, 
for  he  was  somewhat  weary  of  the  ship.  And  then  he  listened 
and  heard  an  horse  come,  and  one  riding  upon  him.  And  when 
he  came  nigh  he  seemed  a  knight.  And  so  he  let  him  pass,  and 
went  thereas  the  ship  was ;  and  there  he  alit,  and  took  the  saddle 
and  the  bridle  and  put  the  horse  from  him,  and  went  into  the 
ship.     And  then  Launcelot  dressed  unto  him,  and  said :   Ye  be 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  15 

welcome.  And  he  answered  and  saluted  him  again,  and  asked 
him  :  What  is  your  name  ?  for  much  my  heart  giveth  unto  you. 
Truly,  said  he,  my  name  is  Launcelot  du  Lake.  Sir,  said  he, 
then  be  ye  welcome,  for  ye  were  the  beginning  of  me  in  this 
world.  Ah,  said  he,  are  ye  Galahad  ?  Yea,  forsooth,  said  he ; 
and  so  he  kneeled  down  and  asked  him  his  blessing,  and  after 
took  off  his  helm  and  kissed  him.  And  there  was  great  joy  be- 
tween them,  for  there  is  no  tongue  can  tell  the  joy  that  they  made 
either  of  other,  and  many  a  friendly  word  spoken  between,  as 
kin  would,  the  which  is  no  need  here  to  be  rehearsed.  And  there 
every  each  told  other  of  their  adventures  and  marvels  that  were 
befallen  to  them  in  many  journeys  sith  that  they  departed  from 
the  court.  Anon,  as  Galahad  saw  the  gentlewoman  dead  in  the 
bed,  he  knew  her  well  enough,  and  told  great  worship  of  her, 
that  she  was  the  best  maid  living,  and  it  was  great  pity  of  her 
death.  But  when  Launcelot  heard  how  the  marvellous  sword 
was  gotten,  and  who  made  it,  and  all  the  marvels  rehearsed 
afore,  then  he  prayed  Galahad,  his  son,  that  he  would  show  him 
the  sword,  and  so  he  did ;  and  anon  he  kissed  the  pommel,  and 
the  hilt,  and  the  scabbard.  Truly,  said  Launcelot,  never  erst 
knew  I  of  so  high  adventures  done,  and  so  marvellous  and 
strange.  So  dwelt  Launcelot  and  Galahad  within  that  ship 
half  a  year,  and  served  God  daily  and  nightly  with  all  their 
power ;  and  often  they  arrived  in  isles  far  from  folk,  where  there 
repaired  none  but  wild  beasts,  and  there  they  found  many  strange 
adventures  and  perillous,  which  they  brought  to  an  end ;  but 
for  those  adventures  were  with  wild  beasts,  and  not  in  the  quest 
of  the  Sangreal,  therefore  the  tale  maketh  here  no  mention 
thereof,  for  it  would  be  too  long  to  tell  of  all  those  adventures 
that  befell  them. 

CHAPTER   XIV 

How  A  Knight  brought  unto  Sir  Galahad  a  Horse,  and  bad 
HIM  come  from  his  Father,  Sir  Launcelot 

So  after,  on  a  Monday,  it  befell  that  they  arrived  in  the  edge 
of  a  forest  tofore  a  cross ;  and  then  saw  they  a  knight  armed  all 


i6  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

in  white,  and  was  richly  horsed,  and  led  in  his  right  hand  a 
white  horse ;  and  so  he  came  to  the  ship,  and  saluted  the  two 
knights  on  the  High  Lord's  behalf,  and  said :  Galahad,  sir,  ye 
have  been  long  enough  with  your  father,  come  out  of  the  ship, 
and  start  upon  this  horse,  and  go  where  the  adventures  shall 
lead  thee  in  the  quest  of  the  Sangreal.  Then  he  went  to  his 
father  and  kissed  him  sweetly,  and  said :  Fair  sweet  father,  I 
wot  not  when  I  shall  see  you  more  till  I  see  the  body  of  Jesu 
Christ.  I  pray  you,  said  Launcelot,  pray  ye  to  the  High  Father 
that  He  hold  me  in  His  service.  And  so  he  took  his  horse,  and 
there  they  heard  a  voice  that  said  :  Think  for  to  do  well,  for  the 
one  shall  never  see  the  other  before  the  dreadful  day  of  doom. 
Now,  son  Galahad,  said  Launcelot,  syne  we  shall  depart,  and 
never  see  other,  I  pray  to  the  High  Father  to  conserve  me  and 
you  both.  Sir,  said  Galahad,  no  prayer  availeth  so  much  as 
yours.  And  therewith  Galahad  entered  into  the  forest.  And 
the  wind  arose,  and  drove  Launcelot  more  than  a  month  through- 
out the  sea,  where  he  slept  but  little,  but  prayed  to  God  that  he 
might  see  some  tidings  of  the  Sangreal.  So  it  befell  on  a  night, 
at  midnight,  he  arrived  afore  a  castle,  on  the  back  side,  which 
was  rich  and  fair,  and  there  was  a  postern  opened  toward  the  sea, 
and  was  open  without  any  keeping,  save  two  hons  kept  the 
entry ;  and  the  moon  shone  clear.  Anon  Sir  Launcelot  heard 
a  voice  that  said :  Launcelot,  go  out  of  this  ship  and  enter  into 
the  castle,  where  thou  shalt  see  a  great  part  of  thy  desire.  Then 
he  ran  to  his  arms,  and  so  armed  him,  and  so  went  to  the  gate  and 
saw  the  lions.  Then  set  he  hand  to  his  sword  and  drew  it. 
Then  there  came  a  dwarf  suddenly,  and  smote  him  on  the  arm 
so  sore  that  the  sword  fell  out  of  his  hand.  Then  heard  he  a 
voice  say  :  0  man  of  evil  faith  and  poor  belief,  wherefore  trowest 
thou  more  on  thy  harness  than  in  thy  Maker,  for  He  might  more 
avail  thee  than  thine  armour,  in  whose  service  that  thou  art 
set.  Then  said  Launcelot :  Fair  Father  Jesu  Christ,  I  thank  thee 
of  Thy  great  mercy  that  Thou  rcprovest  me  of  my  misdeed ; 
now  see  I  well  that  ye  hold  me  for  your  servant.  Then  took  he 
again  his  sword  and  put  it  up  in  his  sheath,  and  made  a  cross  in 
his  forehead,  and  came  to  the  lions,  and  they  made  semblant 
to  do  him  harm.     Notwithstanding  he  passed  by  them  without 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  17 

hurt,  and  entered  into  the  castle  to  the  chief  fortress,  and  there 
were  they  all  at  rest.  Then  Launcelot  entered  in  so  armed,  for 
he  found  no  gate  nor  door  but  it  was  open.  And  at  the  last  he 
found  a  chamber  whereof  the  door  was  shut,  and  he  set  his  hand 
thereto  to  have  opened  it,  but  he  might  not. 


CHAPTER  XV 

How  Sir  Launcelot  was  afore  the  Door  of  the  Chamber  wherein 
THE  Holy  Sangreal  Was 

Then  he  enforced  him  mickle  to  undo  the  door.  Then  he 
listened  and  heard  a  voice  which  sang  so  sweetly  that  it  seemed 
none  earthly  thing ;  and  him  thought  the  voice  said :  Joy  and 
honour  be  to  the  Father  of  Heaven.  Then  Launcelot  kneeled 
down  tofore  the  chamber,'for  well  wist  he  that  there  was  the  San- 
greal within  that  chamber.  Then  said  he :  Fair  sweet  Father, 
Jesu  Christ,  if  ever  I  did  thing  that  pleased  Thee,  Lord  for  Thy 
pity  never  have  me  not  in  despite  for  my  sins  done  aforetime, 
and  that  Thou  show  me  something  of  that  I  seek.  And  with 
that  he  saw  the  chamber  door  open,  and  there  came  out  a  great 
clereness,  that  the  house  was  as  bright  as  all  the  torches  of  the 
world  had  been  there.  So  came  he  to  the  chamber  door,  and 
would  have  entered.  And  anon  a  voice  said  to  him.  Flee,  Laun- 
celot, and  enter  not,  for  thou  oughtest  not  to  do  it ;  and  if  thou 
enter  thou  shalt  forethink  it.  Then  he  withdrew  him  aback  right 
heavy.  Then  looked  he  up  in  the  middes  of  the  chamber,  and 
saw  a  table  of  silver,  and  the  holy  vessel,  covered  with  red 
samite,  and  many  angels  about  it,  whereof  one  held  a  candle  of 
wax  burning,  and  the  other  held  a  cross,  and  the  ornaments  of 
an  altar.  And  before  the  holy  vessel  he  saw  a  good  man  clothed 
as  a  priest.  And  it  seemed  that  he  was  at  the  sacring  of  the 
mass.  And  it  seemed  to  Launcelot  that  above  the  priest's  hands 
were  three  men,  whereof  the  two  put  the  youngest  by  likeness 
between  the  priest's  hands ;  and  so  he  hft  it  up  right  high,  and 
it  seemed  to  show  so  to  the  people.  And  then  Launcelot  mar- 
velled not  a  Httle,  for  him  thought  the  priest  was  so  greatly 
charged  of  the  figure  that  him  seemed  that  he  should  fall  to  the 


1 8  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

earth.  And  when  he  saw  none  about  him  that  would  help  him, 
then  came  he  to  the  door  a  great  pace,  and  said  :  Fair  Father 
Jesu  Christ,  ne  take  it  for  no  sin  though  I  help  the  good  man 
which  hath  great  need  of  help.  Right  so  entered  he  into  the 
chamber,  and  came  toward  the  table  of  silver ;  and  when  he  came 
nigh  he  felt  a  breath,  that  him  thought  it  was  intermeddled 
with  fire,  which  smote  him  so  sore  in  the  visage  that  him  thought 
it  brent  his  visage ;  and  therewith  he  fell  to  the  earth,  and  had 
no  power  to  arise,  as  he  that  was  so  araged,  that  had  lost  the 
power  of  his  body,  and  his  hearing,  and  his  seeing.  Then  felt 
he  many  hands  about  him,  which  took  him  up  and  bare  him 
out  of  the  chamber  door,  without  any  amending  of  his  swoon, 
and  left  him  there,  seeming  dead  to  all  people.  So  upon  the 
morrow  when  it  was  fair  day  they  within  were  arisen,  and 
found  Launcelot  lying  afore  the  chamber  door.  All  they  mar- 
velled how  that  he  came  in,  and  so  they  looked  upon  him,  and 
felt  his  pulse  to  wit  whether  there  were  any  hfe  in  him ;  and  so 
they  found  life  in  him,  but  he  might  not  stand  nor  stir  no  member 
that  he  had.  And  so  they  took  him  by  every  part  of  the  body, 
and  bare  him  into  a  chamber,  and  laid  him  in  a  rich  bed,  far 
from  all  folk ;  and  so  he  lay  four  days.  Then  the  one  said  he 
was  on  live,  and  the  other  said,  Nay.  In  the  name  of  God, 
said  an  old  man,  for  I  do  you  verily  to  wit  he  is  not  dead,  but  he 
is  so  full  of  life  as  the  mightiest  of  you  all ;  and  therefore  I  coun- 
sel you  that  he  be  well  kept  till  God  send  him  life  again. 

CHAPTER  XVI 

How  Sir  Launcelot  had  lain  Four  and  Twenty  Days  and  as 
Many  Nights  as  a  Dead  Man,  and  Other  Divers  Matters 

In  such  manner  they  kept  Launcelot  four  and  twenty  days 
and  all  so  many  nights,  that  ever  he  lay  still  as  a  dead  man ; 
and  at  the  twenty-fifth  day  befell  him  after  midday  that  he 
opened  his  eyes.  And  when  he  saw  folk  he  made  great  sorrow, 
and  said  :  Why  have  ye  awaked  mc,  for  I  was  more  at  ease  than 
I  am  now.  0  Jesu  Christ,  who  might  be  so  blessed  that  might 
see  openly  thy  great  marvels  of  secretness  there  where  no  sinner 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR 


19 


may  be  !     What  have  ye  seen  ?  said  they  about  him.     I  have 
seen,  said  he,  so  great  marvels  that  no  tongue  may  tell,  and  more 
than  any  heart  can  think,  and  had  not  my  son  been  here  afore 
me  I  had  seen  much  more.     Then  they  told  him  how  he  had  lain 
there  four  and  twenty  days  and  nights.     Then  him  thought  it 
was  punishment  for  the  four  and  twenty  years  that  he  had  been 
a  sinner,  wherefore  Our  Lord  put  him  in  penance  four  and 
twenty  days  and  nights.     Then  looked  Sir  Launcelot  afore  him, 
and  saw  the  hair  which  he  had  borne  nigh  a  year,  for  that  he 
forethought  him  right  much  that  he  had  broken  his  promise 
unto  the  hermit,  which  he  had  avowed  to  do.     Then  they  asked 
how  it  stood  with  him.     Forsooth,  said  he,  I  am  whole  of  body, 
thanked  be  Our  Lord ;    therefore,  sirs,  for  God's  love  tell  me 
where  I  am.     Then  said  they  all  that  he  was  in  the  castle  of 
Carbonek.     Therewith  came  a  gentlewoman  and  brought  him 
a  shirt  of  small  hnen  cloth,  but  he  changed  not  there,  but  took 
the  hair  to  him  again.     Sir,  said  they,  the  quest  of  the  Sangreal 
is  achieved  now  right  in  you,  that  never  shall  ye  see  of  the  San- 
greal no  more  than  ye  have  seen.     Now  I  thank  God,  said  Laun- 
celot, of  His  great  mercy  of  that  I  have  seen,  for  it  sufhceth  me ; 
for  as  I  suppose  no  man  in  this  world  hath  hved  better  than  I 
have  done  to  achieve  that  I  have  done.     And  therewith  he  took 
the  hair  and  clothed  him  in  it,  and  above  that  he  put  a  linen 
shirt,  and  after  a  robe  of  scarlet,  fresh  and  new.     And  when  he 
was  so.  arrayed  they  marvelled  all,  for  they  knew  him  that  he 
was  Launcelot,  the  good  knight.     And  then  they  said  all:    O 
my  lord  Sir  Launcelot,  be  that  ye  ?     And  he  said  :   Truly  I  am 
he.     Then  came  word  to  King  Pelles  that  the  knight  that  had 
lain  so  long  dead  was  Sir  Launcelot.     Then  was  the  king  right 
glad,  and  went  to  see  him.     And  when  Launcelot  saw  him  come 
he  dressed  him  against  him,  and  there  made  the  king  great  joy 
of  him.     And  there  the  king  told   him  tidings  that  his  fair 
daughter  was  dead.     Then  Launcelot  was  right  heavy  of  it,  and 
said  :    Sir,  me  forthinketh  the  death  of  your  daughter,  for  she 
was  a  full  fair  lady,  fresh  and  young.     And  well  I  wot  she  bare 
the  best  knight  that  is  now  on  the  earth,  or  that  ever  was  sith 
God  was  born.     So  the  king  held  him  there  four  days,  and  on 
the  morrow  he  took  his  leave  at  King  Pelles  and  at  all  the  fel- 


20  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

lowship,  and  thanked  them  of  their  great  labour.  Right  so  as 
they  sat  at  their  dinner  in  the  chief  hall,  then  was  it  so  that  the 
Sangreal  had  fulfilled  the  table  with  all  manner  of  meats  that 
any  heart  might  think.  So  as  they  sat  they  saw  all  the  doors 
and  the  windows  of  the  place  were  shut  without  man's  hand, 
whereof  they  were  all  abashed,  and  none  wist  what  to  do.  And 
then  it  happened  suddenly  that  a  knight  came  to  the  chief  door 
and  knocked,  and  cried  :  Undo  the  door.  But  they  would  not. 
And  ever  he  cried  :  Undo  ;  but  they  would  not.  And  at  last  it 
annoyed  him  so  much  that  the  king  himself  arose  and  came  to 
a  window  where  the  knight  called.  Then  he  said :  Sir  knight, 
ye  shall  not  enter  at  this  time  while  the  Sangreal  is  here,  and 
therefore  go  into  another ;  for  certes  ye  be  none  of  the  knights 
of  the  quest,  but  one  of  them  which  hath  served  the  fiend,  and 
hast  left  the  service  of  Our  Lord:  and  he  was  passing  wroth  at 
the  king's  words.  Sir  knight,  said  the  king,  sith  ye  would  so 
fain  enter,  say  me  of  what  country  ye  be.  Sir,  said  he,  I  am  of 
the  realm  of  Logris,  and  my  name  is  Ector  de  Maris,  and  brother 
unto  my  lord.  Sir  Launcelot.  In  the  name  of  God,  said  the  king, 
me  forthinketh  of  what  I  have  said,  for  your  brother  is  here 
within.  And  when  Ector  de  Maris  understood  that  his  brother 
was  there,  for  he  was  the  man  in  the  world  that  he  most  dread 
and  loved,  and  then  he  said  :  Ah  God,  now  doubleth  my  sorrow 
and  shame.  Full  truly  said  the  good  man  of  the  hill  unto  Ga- 
waine  and  to  me  of  our  dreams.  Then  went  he  out  of  the  court 
as  fast  as  his  horse  might,  and  so  throughout  the  castle. 

CHAPTER  XVII 

How  Sir  Launcelot  returned  towards  Logris,  and  of  Other 
Adventures  wihch  he  saw  in  the  Way 

Then  King  Pelles  came  to  Sir  Launcelot  and  told  him  tidings 
of  his  brother,  whereof  he  was  sorry,  that  he  wist  not  what  to 
do.  So  Sir  Launcelot  departed,  and  took  his  arms,  and  said  he 
would  go  see  the  realm  of  Logris,  which  I  have  not  seen  these 
twelve  months.  And  therewith  he  commended  the  king  to 
God,  and  so  rode  through  many  realms.     And  at  the  last  he  came 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  2i 

to  a  white  abbey,  and  there  they  made  him  that  night  great 
cheer ;  and  on  the  morn  he  rose  and  heard  mass.  And  afore  an 
altar  he  found  a  rich  tomb,  the  which  was  newly  made ;  and  then 
he  took  heed,  and  saw  the  sides  written  with  gold  which  said  : 
Here  Ueth  King  Bagdemagus  of  Gore,  which  King  Arthur's 
nephew  slew  ;  and  named  him.  Sir  Gawaine.  Then  was  he  not 
a  Kttle  sorry,  for  Launcelot  loved  him  much  more  than  any 
other,  and  had  it  been  any  other  than  Gawaine  he  should  not 
have  escaped  from  death  to  hfe ;  and  said  to  himself :  Ah  Lord 
God,  this  is  a  great  hurt  unto  King  Arthur's  court,  the  loss  of 
such  a  man.  And  then  he  departed  and  came  to  the  abbey 
where  Galahad  did  the  adventure  of  the  tombs,  and  won  the 
white  shield  with  the  red  cross ;  and  there  had  he  great  cheer 
all  that  night.  And  on  the  morn  he  turned  unto  Camelot,  where 
he  found  King  Arthur  and  the  queen.  But  many  of  the  knights 
of  the  Round  Table  were  slain  and  destroyed,  more  than  half. 
And  so  three  were  come  home  again,  that  were  Sir  Gawaine,  Sir 
Ector,  and  Sir  Lionel,  and  many  other  that  need  not  to  be 
rehearsed.  Then  all  the  court  was  passing  glad  of  Sir  Launce- 
lot, and  the  king  asked  him  many  tidings  of  his  son  Galahad. 
And  there  Launcelot  told  the  king  of  his  adventures  that  had 
befallen  him  syne  he  departed.  And  also  he  told  him  of  the 
adventures  of  Galahad,  Percivale,  and  Bors,  which  that  he  knew 
by  the  letter  of  the  dead  damosel,  and  as  Galahad  had  told  him. 
Now  God  would,  said  the  king,  that  they  were  all  three  here. 
That  shall  never  be,  said  Launcelot,  for  two  of  them  shall  ye 
never  see,  but  one  of  them  shall  come  again. 

CHAPTER   XIX 

How  Sir  Percivale  and  Sir  Bors  met  with  Sir  Galahad,  and 

HOW    THEY    CAME    TO    THE    CaSTLE    OF    CaRBONEK, 

AND  Other  Matters 

*  *  *  So  on  a  day  it  befell  that  they  ^  came  out  of  a  great 
forest,  and  there  they  met  at  traverse  with  Sir  Bors,  the  which 
rode  alone.     It  is  none  need  to  tell  if  they  were  glad ;  and  them 

1  Galahad  and  Percivale. 


22  SIR  THOMAS    MALORY 

he  saluted,  and  they  yielded  him  honour  and  good  adventure,  and 
every  each  told  other.  Then  said  Bors  :  It  is  more  than  a  year 
and  an  half  that  I  ne  lay  ten  times  where  men  dwelled,  but  in 
wild  forests  and  in  mountains,  but  God  was  ever  my  comfort. 
Then  rode  they  a  great  while  till  that  they  came  to  the  castle  of 
Carbonek.  And  when  they  were  entered  within  the  castle  King 
Pelles  knew  them ;  then  there  was  great  joy,  for  they  wist  well 
by  their  coming  that  they  had  fulfilled  the  quest  of  the  Sangreal. 
Then  Ehazar,  King  Pelles'  son,  brought  tofore  them  the  broken 
sword  wherewith  Joseph  was  stricken  through  the  thigh.  Then 
Bors  set  his  hand  thereto,  if  that  he  might  have  soldered  it  again ; 
but  it  would  not  be.  Then  he  took  it  to  Percivale,  but  he  had 
no  more  power  thereto  than  he.  Now  have  ye  it  again,  said 
Percivale  to  Galahad,  for  an  it  be  ever  achieved  by  any  bodily 
man  ye  must  do  it.  And  then  he  took  the  pieces  and  set  them 
together,  and  they  seemed  that  they  had  never  been  broken, 
and  as  well  as  it  had  been  first  forged.  And  when  they  within 
espied  that  the  adventure  of  the  sword  was  achieved,  then  they 
gave  the  sword  to  Bors,  for  it  might  not  be  better  set ;  for  he 
was  a  good  knight  and  a  worthy  man.  And  a  Httle  afore  even 
the  sword  arose  great  and  marvellous,  and  was  full  of  great  heat 
that  many  men  fell  for  dread.  And  anon  alit  a  voice  among 
them,  and  said  :  They  that  ought  not  to  sit  at  the  table  of  Jesu 
Christ  arise,  for  now  shall  very  knights  be  fed.  So  they  went 
thence,  all  save  King  Pelles  and  Eliazar,  his  son,  the  which 
were  holy  men,  and  a  maid  which  was  his  niece ;  and  so  these 
three  fellows  and  they  three  were  there,  no  more.  Anon  they 
saw  knights  all  armed  come  in  at  the  hall  door,  and  did  off  their 
helms  and  their  arms,  and  said  unto  Galahad  :  Sir,  we  have  hied 
right  much  for  to  be  with  you  at  this  table  where  the  holy  meat 
shall  be  departed.  Then  said  he :  Ye  be  welcome,  but  of  whence 
be  ye  ?  So  three  of  them  said  they  were  of  Gaul,  and  other  three 
said  they  were  of  Ireland,  and  the  other  three  said  they  were  of 
Denmark.  So  as  they  sat  thus  there  came  out  a  bed  of  tree,  of 
a  chamber,  the  which  four  gentlewomen  brought ;  and  in  the  bed 
lay  a  good  man  sick,  and  a  crown  of  gold  upon  his  head ;  and 
there  in  the  middcs  of  the  place  they  set  him  down,  and  went 
again  their  way.     Then  lie  lift  up  his  head,  and  said  :  Galahad, 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  23 

Knight,  ye  be  welcome,  for  much  have  I  desired  your  coming, 
for  in  such  anguish  I  have  been  long.  But  now  I  trust  to  God 
the  term  is  come  that  my  pain  shall  be  allayed,  that  I  shall 
pass  out  of  this  world  so  as  it  was  promised  me  long  ago. 
Therewith  a  voice  said  :  There  be  two  among  you  that  be  not  in 
the  quest  of  the  Sangreal,  and  therefore  depart  ye. 


CHAPTER   XX 

How  Galahad  and  his  Fellows  were  fed  of  the   Holy  San- 
greal,   AND    HOW    OUR    LoRD    APPEARED   TO    THEM, 

AND  Other  Things 

Then  King  Pelles  and  his  son  departed.  And  therewithal 
beseemed  them  that  there  came  a  man,  and  four  angels  from 
heaven,  clothed  in  likeness  of  a  bishop,  and  had  a  cross  in  his 
hand  ;  and  these  four  angels  bare  him  in  a  chair,  and  set  him 
down  before  the  table  of  silver  whereupon  the  Sangreal  was ; 
and  it  seemed  that  he  had  in  middes  of  his  forehead  letters  the 
which  said  :  See  ye  here  Joseph,  the  first  bishop  of  Christendom, 
the  same  which  Our  Lord  succoured  in  the  city  of  Sarras  in  the 
spiritual  place.  Then  the  knights  marvelled,  for  that  bishop  was 
dead  more  than  three  hundred  year  tofore.  O  knights,  said  he, 
marvel  not,  for  I  was  sometime  an  earthly  man.  With  that 
they  heard  the  chamber  door  open,  and  there  they  saw  angels ; 
and  two  bare  candles  of  wax,  and  the  third  a  towel,  and  the 
fourth  a  spear  which  bled  marvellously,  that  three  drops  fell 
within  a  box  which  he  held  with  his  other  hand.  And  they  set 
the  candles  upon  the  table,  and  the  third  the  towel  upon  the 
vessel,  and  the  fourth  the  holy  spear  even  upright  upon  the 
vessel.  And  then  the  bishop  made  semblant  as  though  he 
would  have  gone  to  the  sacring  of  the  mass.  And  then  he  took 
an  ubblye  which  was  made  in  likeness  of  bread.  And  at  the 
hfting  up  there  came  a  figure  in  likeness  of  a  child,  and  the  vis- 
age was  as  red  and  as  bright  as  any  fire,  and  smote  himself  into 
the  bread,  so  that  they  all  saw  it  that  the  bread  was  formed  of 
a  fleshly  man ;  and  then  he  put  it  into  the  holy  vessel  again, 
and  then  he  did  that  longed  to  a  priest  to  do  to  a  rnass.     And 


24  SIR  THOMAS   MALORY 

then  he  went  to  Galahad  and  kissed  him,  and  bad  him  go  and 
kiss  his  fellows  :  and  so  he  did  anon.  Now,  said  he,  servants  of 
Jesu  Christ,  ye  shall  be  fed  afore  this  table  with  sweetmeats 
that  never  knights  tasted.  And  when  he  had  said,  he  vanished 
away.  And  they  set  them  at  the  table  in  great  dread,  and  made 
their  prayers.  Then  looked  they  and  saw  a  man  come  out  of 
the  holy  vessel,  that  had  all  the  signs  of  the  passion  of  Jesu 
Christ,  bleeding  all  openly,  and  said  :  My  knights,  and  my 
servants,  and  my  true  children,  which  be  come  out  of  deadly 
hfe  into  spiritual  hfe,  I  will  now  no  longer  hide  me  from  you, 
but  ye  shall  see  now  a  part  of  my  secrets  and  of  my  hidden 
things :  now  hold  and  receive  the  high  meat  which  ye  have  so 
much  desired.  Then  took  he  himself  the  holy  vessel  and  came 
to  Galahad ;  and  he  kneeled  down,  and  there  he  received  his 
Saviour,  and  after  him  so  received  all  his  fellows ;  and  they 
thought  it  so  sweet  that  it  was  marvellous  to  tell.  Then  said 
he  to  Galahad  :  Son,  wotest  thou  what  I  hold  betwixt  my  hands  ? 
Nay,  said  he,  but  if  ye  will  tell  me.  This  is,  said  he,  the  holy 
dish  wherein  I  ate  the  lamb  on  Sher-Thursday.  And  now  hast 
thou  seen  that  thou  most  desired  to  see,  but  yet  hast  thou  not 
seen  it  so  openly  as  thou  shalt  see  it  in  the  city  of  Sarras  in  the 
spiritual  place.  Therefore  thou  must  go  hence  and  bear  with 
thee  this  holy  vessel ;  for  this  night  it  shall  depart  from  the  realm 
of  Logris,  that  it  shall  never  be  seen  more  here.  And  wotest 
thou  wherefore  ?  For  he  is  not  served  nor  worshipped  to  his 
right  by  them  of  this  land,  for  they  be  turned  to  evil  living ; 
therefore  I  shall  disherit  them  of  the  honour  which  I  have  done 
them.  And  therefore  go  ye  three  to-morrow  unto  the  sea,  where 
ye  shall  find  your  ship  ready,  and  with  you  take  the  sword  with 
the  strange  girdles,  and  no  more  with  you  but  Sir  Percivale  and 
Sir  Bors.  Also  I  will  that  ye  take  with  you  of  the  blood  of  this 
spear  for  to  anoint  the  maimed  king,  both  his  legs  and  all  his 
body,  and  he  shall  have  his  health.  Sir,  said  Galahad,  why  shall 
not  these  other  fellows  go  with  us  ?  For  this  cause  :  for  right  as  I 
departed  my  apostles  one  here  and  another  there,  so  I  will  that 
ye  depart ;  and  two  of  you  shall  die  in  my  service,  but  one  of 
you  shall  come  again  and  tell  tidings.  Then  gave  he  them  his 
blessing  and  vanished  away. 


LE    MORTE   D'ARTHUR  25 

CHAPTER   XXI 

How  Galahad  anointed  with  the  Blood  or  the  Spear  the 
Maimed  King,  and  Other  Adventures 

And  Galahad  went  anon  to  the  spear  which  lay  upon  the  table, 
and  touched  the  blood  with  his  fingers,  and  came  after  to  the 
maimed  king  and  anointed  his  legs.  And  therewith  he  clothed 
him  anon,  and  start  upon  his  feet  out  of  his  bed  as  an  whole  man, 
and  thanked  Our  Lord  that  He  had  healed  him.  And  that  was 
not  to  the  world  ward,  for  anon  he  yielded  him  to  a  place  of  reli- 
gion of  white  monks,  and  was  a  full  holy  man.  That  same 
night  about  midnight  came  a  voice  among  them  which  said : 
My  sons  and  not  my  chief  sons,  my  friends  and  not  my  warriors, 
go  ye  hence  where  ye  hope  best  to  do  and  as  I  bad  you.  Ah, 
thanked  be  Thou,  Lord,  that  Thou  wilt  vouchsafe  to  call  us, 
Thy  sinners.  Now  may  we  well  prove  that  we  have  not  lost 
our  pains.  And  anon  in  all  haste  they  took  their  harness  and 
departed.  But  the  three  knights  of  Gaul,  one  of  them  hight 
Claudine-,  King  Claudas'  son,  and  the  other  two  were  great  gen- 
tlemen. Then  prayed  Galahad  to  every  each  of  them,  that  if 
they  come  to  King  Arthur's  court  that  they  should  salute  my 
lord,  Sir  Launcelot,  my  father,  and  of  them  of  the  Round  Table ; 
and  prayed  them  if  that  they  came  on  that  part  that  they  should 
not  forget  it.  Right  so  departed  Galahad,  Percivale  and  Bors 
with  him ;  and  so  they  rode  three  days,  and  then  they  came  to 
a  rivage,  and  found  the  ship  whereof  the  tale  speaketh  of  tofore. 
And  when  they  came  to  the  board  they  found  in  the  middes  the 
table  of  silver  which  they  had  left  with  the  maimed  king,  and  the 
Sangreal  which  was  covered  with  red  samite.  Then  were  they 
glad  to  have  such  things  in  their  fellowship  ;  and  so  they  entered 
and  made  great  reverence  thereto ;  and  Galahad  fell  in  his 
prayer  long  time  to  Our  Lord,  that  at  what  time  he  asked, 
that  he  should  pass  out  of  this  world.  So  much  he  prayed 
till  a  voice  said  to  him :  Galahad,  thou  shalt  have  thy  request ; 
and  when  thou  askest  the  death  of  thy  body  thou  shalt  have  it, 
and  then  shalt  thou  find  the  hfe  of  the  soul.  Percivale  heard 
this,  and  prayed  him,  of  fellowship  that  was  between  them,  to 


26  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

tell  him  wherefore  he  asked  such  things.  That  shall  I  tell  you, 
said  Galahad ;  the  other  day  when  we  saw  a  part  of  the  adven- 
tures of  the  Sangreal  I  was  in  such  a  joy  of  heart,  that  I  trow 
never  man  was  that  was  earthly.  And  therefore  I  wot  well, 
when  my  body  is  dead  my  soul  shall  be  in  great  joy  to  see  the 
blessed  Trinity  every  day,  and  the  Majesty  of  Our  Lord,  Jesu 
Christ.  So  long  were  they  in  the  ship  that  they  said  to  Gala- 
had :  Sir,  in  this  bed  ought  ye  to  He,  for  so  saith  the  scripture. 
And  so  he  laid  him  down  and  slept  a  great  while ;  and  when  he 
awaked  he  looked  afore  him  and  saw  the  city  of  Sarras.  And 
as  they  would  have  landed  they  saw  the  ship  wherein  Percivale 
had  put  his  sister  in.  Truly,  said  Percivale,  in  the  name  of 
God,  well  hath  my  sister  holden  us  covenant.  Then  took  they 
out  of  the  ship  the  table  of  silver,  and  he  took  it  to  Percivale 
and  to  Bors,  to  go  tofore,  and  Galahad  came  behind.  And  right 
so  they  went  to  the  city,  and  at  the  gate  of  the  city  they  saw  an 
old  man  crooked.  Then  Galahad  called  him  and  bad  him  help 
to  bear  this  heavy  thing.  Truly,  said  the  old  man,  it  is  ten  year 
ago  that  I  might  not  go  but  with  crutches.  Care  thou  not,  said 
Galahad,  and  arise  up  and  shew  thy  good  will.  And  so  he 
essayed,  and  found  himself  as  whole  as  ever  he  was.  Then  ran 
he  to  the  table,  and  took  one  part  against  Galahad.  And  anon 
arose  there  great  noise  in  the  city,  that  a  cripple  was  made  whole 
by  knights  marvellous  that  entered  into  the  city.  Then  anon 
after,  the  three  knights  went  to  the  water,  and  brought  up  into 
the  palace  Percivale's  sister,  and  buried  her  as  richly  as  a  king's 
daughter  ought  to  be.  And  when  the  king  of  the  city,  which  was 
cleped  Estorause,  saw  the  fellowship,  he  asked  them  of  whence 
they  were,  and  what  thing  it  was  that  they  had  brought  upon 
the  table  of  silver.  And  they  told  him  the  truth  of  the  Sangreal, 
and  the  power  which  that  God  had  set  there.  Then  the  king 
was  a  tyrant,  and  was  come  of  the  line  of  paynims,  and  took 
them  and  put  them  in  prison  in  a  deep  hole. 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  27 

CHAPTER  XXII 

How   THEY   WERE   FED   WITH   THE    SaNGREAL   WHILE   THEY   WERE   IN 

Prison,  and  how  Galahad  was  made  King 

But  as  soon  as  they  were  there  Our  Lord  sent  them  the  San- 
greal,  through  whose  grace  they  were  alway  fulfilled  while  that 
they  were  in  prison.  So  at  the  year's  end  it  befel  that  this  King 
Estorause  lay  sick,  and  felt  that  he  should  die.  Then  he  sent 
for  the  three  knights,  and  they  came  afore  him ;  and  he  cried 
them  mercy  of  that  he  had  done  to  them,  and  they  forgave  it 
him  goodly ;  and  he  died  anon.  When  the  king  was  dead  all 
the  city  was  dismayed,  and  wist  not  who  might  be  their  king. 
Right  so  as  they  were  in  counsel  there  came  a  voice  among  them, 
and  bad  them  choose  the  youngest  knight  of  them  three  to  be 
their  king :  For  he  shall  well  maintain  you  and  all  yours.  So 
they  made  Galahad  king  by  all  the  assent  of  the  holy  city,  and 
else  they  would  have  slain  him.  And  when  he  was  come  to  be- 
hold the  land,  he  let  make  above  the  table  of  silver  a  chest  of 
gold  and  of  precious  stones,  that  hylled  the  holy  vessel.  And 
every  day  early  the  three  fellows  would  come  afore  it,  and  make 
their  prayers.  Now  at  the  year's  end,  and  the  self  day  after 
Galahad  had  borne  the  crown  of  gold,  he  arose  up  early  and  his 
fellows,  and  came  to  the  palace,  and  saw  tofore  them  the  holy 
vessel,  and  a  man  kneeling  on  his  knees  in  likeness  of  a  bishop, 
that  had  about  him  a  great  fellowship  of  angels  as  it  had  been 
Jesu  Christ  himself ;  and  then  he  arose  and  began  a  mass  of  Our 
Lady.  And  when  he  came  to  the  sacrament  of  the  mass,  and 
had  done,  anon  he  called  Galahad,  and  said  to  him :  Come  forth 
the  servant  of  Jesu  Christ,  and  thou  shalt  see  that  thou  hast 
much  desired  to  see.  And  then  he  began  to  tremble  right  hard 
when  the  deadly  flesh  began  to  behold  the  spiritual  things. 
Then  he  held  up  his  hands  toward  heaven  and  said  :  Lord,  I 
thank  thee,  for  now  I  see  that  that  hath  been  my  desire  many 
a  day.  Now,  blessed  Lord,  would  I  not  longer  live,  if  it  might 
please  thee,  Lord.  And  therewith  the  good  man  took  Our 
Lord's  body  betwixt  his  hands,  and  proffered  it  to  Galahad, 
and  he  received  it  right  gladly  and  meekly.     Now  wotest  thou 


28  SIR  THOMAS   MALORY 

what  I  am  ?  said  the  good  man.  Nay,  said  Galahad.  I  am 
Joseph  of  Aramathie,  the  which  Our  Lord  hath  sent  here  to 
thee  to  bear  thee  fellowship ;  and  wotest  thou  wherefore  that 
he  hath  sent  me  more  than  any  other?  For  thou  hast  resem- 
bled me  in  two  things ;  in  that  thou  hast  seen  the  marvels  of  the 
Sangreal,  in  that  thou  hast  been  a  clene  maiden,  as  I  have  been 
and  am.  And  when  he  had  said  these  words  Galahad  went  to 
Percivalc  and  kissed  him,  and  commended  him  to  God ;  and  so 
he  went  to  Sir  Bors  and  kissed  him,  and  commended  him  to  God, 
and  said  :  Fair  lord,  salute  me  to  my  lord,  Sir  Launcelot,  my 
father,  and  as  soon  as  ye  see  him,  bid  him  remember  of  this 
unstable  world.  And  therewith  he  kneeled  down  tofore  the 
table  and  made  his  prayers,  and  then  suddenly  his  soul  departed 
to  Jesu  Christ,  and  a  great  multitude  of  angels  bare  his  soul  up 
to  heaven,  that  the  two  fellows  might  well  behold  it.  Also  the 
two  fellow^  saw  come  from  heaven  an  hand,  but  they  saw  not 
the  body.  And  then  it  came  right  to  the  Vessel,  and  took  it  and 
the  spear,  and  so  bare  it  up  to  heaven.  Sithen  was  there  never 
man  so  hardy  to  say  that  he  had  seen  the  Sangreal. 

CHAPTER  XXIII 

Of  the  Sorrow  that  Percivale  and  Bors  made  \vhen  Galahad 

WAS  Dead:    and  of  Percivale  how  he  died, 

and  Other  Matters 

When  Percivale  and  Bors  saw  Galahad  dead  they  made  as 
much  sorrow  as  ever  did  two  men.  And  if  they  had  not  been 
good  men  they  might  lightly  have  fallen  in  despair.  And  the 
people  of  the  country  and  of  the  city  were  right  heavy.  And 
then  he  was  buried  ;  and  as  soon  as  he  was  buried  Sir  Percivale 
yielded  him  to  an  hermitage  out  of  the  citw  and  took  a  religious 
clothing.  And  Bors  was  alway  with  him,  but  never  changed  he 
his  secular  clothing,  for  that  he  purposed  him  to  go  again  into 
the  realm  of  Logris.  Thus  a  year  and  two  months  lived  Sir 
Percivale  in  the  hermitage  a  full  holy  life,  and  then  passed  out 
of  this  world  ;  and  Bors  let  bury  him  by  his  sister  and  by  Galahad 
in   the  spiritualities.     When   Bors  saw   that   he  was  in  so  far 


LE    MORTE   D 'ARTHUR 


29 


countries  as  in  the  parts  of  Babylon  he  departed  from  Sarras, 
and  armed  him  and  came  to  the  sea,  and  entered  into  a  ship ; 
and  so  it  befell  him  in  good  adventure  he  came  into  the  realm 
of  Logris ;  and  he  rode  so  fast  till  he  came  to  Camelot  where 
the  king  was.  And  then  was  there  great  joy  made  of  him  in 
the  court,  for  they  weened  all  he  had  been  dead,  forasmuch  as 
he  had  been  so  long  out  of  the  country.  And  when  they  had 
eaten,  the  king  made  great  clerks  to  come  afore  him,  that  they 
should  chronicle  of  the  high  adventures  of  the  good  knights. 
When  Bors  had  told  him  of  the  adventures  of  the  Sangreal, 
such  as  had  befallen  him  and  his  three  fellows,  that  was  Launce- 
lot,  Percivale,  Galahad,  and  himself,  there  Launcelot  told  the 
adventures  of  the  Sangreal  that  he  had  seen.  All  this  was  made 
in  great  books,  and  put  up  in  almeryes  at  Salisbury.  And  anon 
Sir  Bors  said  to  Sir  Launcelot :  Galahad,  your  own  son,  saluted 
you  by  me,  and  after  you  King  Arthur  and  all  the  Court,  and 
so  did  Sir  Percivale,  for  I  buried  them  with  mine  own  hands  in 
the  city  of  Sarras.  Also,  Sir  Launcelot,  Galahad  prayed  you  to 
remember  of  this  unsyker  world  as  ye  behight  him  when  ye  were 
together  more  than  half  a  year.  This  is  true,  said  Launcelot ; 
now  I  trust  to  God  his  prayer  shall  avail  me.  Then  Launcelot 
took  Sir  Bors  in  his  arms,  and  said :  Gentle  cousin,  ye  are  right 
welcome  to  me,  and  all  that  ever  I  may  do  for  you  and  for  yours 
ye  shall  find  my  poor  body  ready  at  all  times,  while  the  spirit 
is  in  it,  and  that  I  promise  you  faithfully,  and  never  to  fail. 
And  wit  ye  well,  gentle  cousin.  Sir  Bors,  that  ye  and  I  will  never 
depart  in  sunder  whilst  our  Hves  may  last.  Sir,  said  he,  I  will 
as  ye  will. 

Thus  endeth  the  story  of  the  Sangreal,  that  was  briefly  drawn  out  of  French 
into  English,  the  which  is  a  story  chronicled  for  one  of  the  truest  and  the  holiest 
that  is  in  this  world,  the  which  is  the  xvii.  hook. 

And  here  followeth  the  eighteenth  book. 


30  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 


BOOK  XVIII.    CHAPTER  IX 


How  Sm  Launcelot  rode  to  Astolat,  and  received  a  Sleeve 
TO  wear  upon  his  Helm  at  the  Request  of  a  Maid 


Upon  the  morn  early  Sir  Launcelot  heard  mass  and  brake  his 
fast,  and  so  took  his  leave  of  the  queen  and  departed.  And  then 
he  rode  so  much  until  he  came  to  Astolat,  that  is  Gilford ;  and 
there  it  happed  him  in  the  eventide  he  came  to  an  old  baron's 
place  that  hight  Sir  Bernard  of  Astolat.  And  as  Sir  Launcelot 
entered  into  his  lodging,  King  Arthur  espied  him  as  he  did  walk 
in  a  garden  beside  the  castle,  how  he  took  his  lodging,  and  knew 
him  full  well.  It  is  well,  said  King  Arthur  unto  the  knights  that 
were  with  him  in  that  garden  beside  the  castle,  I  have  now 
espied  one  knight  that  will  play  his  play  at  the  jousts  to  the 
which  we  be  gone  toward ;  I  undertake  he  will  do  marvels. 
Who  is  that,  we  pray  you  tell  us  ?  said  many  knights  that  were 
there  at  that  time.  Ye  shall  not  wit  for  me,  said  the  king,  as 
at  this  time.  And  so  the  king  smiled,  and  went  to  his  lodging. 
So  when  Sir  Launcelot  was  in  his  lodging,  and  unarmed  him  in 
his  chamber,  the  old  baron  and  hermit  came  to  him  making  his 
reverence,  and  welcomed  him  in  the  best  manner ;  but  the  old 
knight  knew  not  Sir  Launcelot.  Fair  sir,  said  Sir  Launcelot  to 
his  host,  I  would  pray  you  to  lend  me  a  shield  that  were  not 
openly  known,  for  mine  is  well  known.  Sir,  said  his-  host,  ye 
shall  have  your  desire,  for  meseemeth  ye  be  one  of  the  likeliest 
knights  of  the  world,  and  therefore  I  shall  shew  you  friendship. 
Sir,  wit  you  well  I  have  two  sons  that  were  but  late  made  knights, 
and  the  eldest  hight  Sir  Tirre,  and  he  was  hurt  that  same  day  he 
was  made  knight,  that  he  may  not  ride,  and  his  shield  ye  shall 
have ;  for  that  is  not  known  I  dare  say  but  here,  and  in  no 
place  else.  And  my  youngest  son  hight  Lavaine,  and  if  it 
please  you,  he  shall  ride  with  you  unto  that  jousts  ;  and  he  is  of 
his  age  strong  and  wight,  for  much  my  heart  giveth  unto  you 
that  ye  should  be  a  noble  knight,  therefore  I  pray  you,  tell  me 
your  name,  said  Sir  Bernard.  As  for  that,  said  Sir  Launcelot, 
ye  must  hold  me  excused  as  at  this  time,  and  if  God  give  me  grace 


LE   MORTE   D'ARTHUR 


31 


to  speed  well  at  the  jousts  I  shall  come  again  and  tell  you.  But 
I  pray  you,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  in  any  wise  let  me  have  your  son, 
Sir  Lavaine,  with  me,  and  that  I  may  have  his  brother's  shield. 
All  this  shall  be  done,  said  Sir  Bernard.  This  old  baron  had  a 
daughter  that  was  called  that  time  the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat. 
And  ever  she  beheld  Sir  Launcelot  wonderfully ;  and  as  the 
book  saith,  she  cast  such  a  love  unto  Sir  Launcelot  that  she  could 
never  withdraw  her  love,  wherefore  she  died,  and  her  name  was 
Elaine  le  Blank.  So  thus  as  she  came  to  and  fro  she  was  so  hot 
in  her  love  that  she  besought  Sir  Launcelot  to  wear  upon  him  at 
the  jousts  a  token  of  hers.  Fair  damosel,  said  Sir  Launcelot, 
an  if  I  grant  you  that,  ye  may  say  I  do  more  for  your  love  than 
ever  I  did  for  lady  or  damosel.  Then  he  remembered  him  he 
would  go  to  the  jousts  disguised.  And  by  cause  he  had  never 
fore  that  time  borne  no  manner  of  token  of  no  damosel,  then  he 
bethought  him  that  he  would  bear  one  of  her,  that  none  of  his 
blood  thereby  might  know  him,  and  then  he  said  :  Fair  maiden, 
I  will  grant  you  to  wear  a  token  of  yours  upon  mine  helmet, 
and  therefore  what  it  is,  shew  it  me.  Sir,  she  said,  it  is  a  red 
sleeve  of  mine  of  scarlet,  well  embroidered  with  great  pearls : 
and  so  she  brought  it  him.  So  Sir  Launcelot  received  it,  and  said  : 
Never  did  I  erst  so  much  for  no  damosel.  And  then  Sir  Laun- 
celot betook  the  fair  maiden  his  shield  in  keeping,  and  prayed 
her  to  keep  that  until  that  he  came  again ;  and  so  that  night  he 
had  merry  rest  and  great  cheer,  for  ever  the  damosel  Elaine  was 
about  Sir  Launcelot  all  the  while  she  might  be  suffered. 

CHAPTER  X 

How  THE  Tourney  began  at  Winchester,  and  what  Knights 

WERE    AT    the    JoUSTS  ;    AND   OtHER   ThINGS 

So  upon  a  day,  on  the  morn,  King  Arthur  and  all  his  knights 
departed,  for  their  king  had  tarried  three  days  to  abide  his  noble 
knights.  And  so  when  the  king  was  ridden,  Sir  Launcelot  and 
Sir  Lavaine  made  them  ready  to  ride,  and  either  of  them  had 
white  shields,  and  the  red  sleeve  Sir  Launcelot  let  carry  with 
him.     And  so  they  took  their  leave  at  Sir  Bernard,  the  old  baron, 


32  SIR  THOMAS   MALORY 

and  at  his  daughter,  the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat.  And  then 
they  rode  so  long  till  that  they  came  to  Camelot,  that  time  called 
Winchester;  and  there  was  great  press  of  kings,  dukes,  earls, 
and  barons,  and  many  noble  knights.  But  there  Sir  Launcelot 
was  lodged  privily  by  the  means  of  Sir  Lavaine  with  a  rich  bur- 
gess, that  no  man  in  the  town  was  ware  what  they  were.  And 
so  they  reposed  them  there  till  our  Lady  Day,  Assumption,  as 
the  great  feast  should  be.  So  then  trumpets  blew  unto  the  field,  . 
and  King  Arthur  was  set  on  high  upon  a  scaffold  to  behold  who 
did  best.  But  as  the  French  book  saith,  the  king  would  not 
sufifer  Sir  Gawaine  to  go  from  him,  for  never  had  Sir  Gawaine 
the  better  an  Sir  Launcelot  were  in  the  field  ;  and  many  times  was 
Sir  Gawaine  rebuked  when.  Launcelot  came  into  any  jousts  dis- 
guised. Then  some  of  the  kings,  as  King  Anguish  of  Ireland  and 
the  King  of  Scots,  were  that  time  turned  upon  the  side  of  King 
Arthur.  And  then  on  the  other  party  was  the  King  of  North- 
galis,  and  the  King  with  the  Hundred  Knights,  and  the  King  of 
Northumberland,  and  Sir  Galahad,  the  haut  prince.  But  these 
three  kings  and  this  duke  were  passing  weak  to  hold  against 
King  Arthur's  party,  for  with  him  were  the  noblest  knights  of 
the  world.  So  then  they  withdrew  them  either  party  from 
other,  and  every  man  made  him  ready  in  his  best  manner  to  do 
what  he  might.  Then  Sir  Launcelot  made  him  ready,  and  put 
the  red  sleeve  upon  his  head,  and  fastened  it  fast ;  and  so  Sir 
Launcelot  and  Sir  Lavaine  departed  out  of  Winchester  privily, 
and  rode  until  a  little  leaved  wood  behind  the  party  that  held 
against  King  Arthur's  party,  and  there  they  held  them  still  till 
the  parties  smote  together.  And  then  came  in  the  King  of 
Scots  and  the  King  of  Ireland  on  Arthur's  party,  and  against 
them  came  the  King  of  Northumberland,  and  the  King  with  the 
Hundred  Knights  smote  down  the  King  of  Northumberland, 
and  the  King  with  the  Hundred  Knights  smote  down  King 
Anguish  of  Ireland.  Then  Sir  Palomides  that  was  on  Arthur's 
party  encountered  with  Sir  Galahad,  and  either  of  them  smote 
down  other,  and  either  party  halp  their  lords  on  horseback 
again.  So  there  began  a  strong  assail  upon  both  parties. 
And  then  came  in  Sir  Brandiles.  Sir  Sagramore  le  Desirous.  Sir 
Dodinas  le  Savage,  Sir  Kay  le  Seneschal,  Sir  Griflet  le  Fise  de 


LE    MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  33 

Dieu,  Sir  Mordred,  Sir  Meliot  de  Logris,  Sir  Ozanna  le  Cure 
Hardy,  Sir  Safere,  Sir  Epinogris,  Sir  Galleron  of  Galway.  All 
these  fifteen  knights  were  knights  of  the  Table  Round.  So 
these  with  more  other  came  in  together,  and  beat  on  back  the 
King  of  Northumberland  and  the  King  of  Northgahs.  When 
Sir  Launcelot  saw  this,  as  he  hoved  in  a  little  leaved  wood,  then 
he  said  unto  Sir  Lavaine :  See  yonder  is  a  company  of  good 
knights,  and  they  hold  them  together  as  boars  that  were  chased 
with  dogs.     That  is  truth,  said  Sir  Lavaine. 

CHAPTER   XI 

How  Sir  Launcelot  and  Sir  Lavaine  entered  in  the  Field 

AGAINST  THEM  OF  KiNG  ArTHUR'S  CoURT,  AND  HOW 

Launcelot  was  Hurt 

Now,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  an  ye  will  help  me  a  little,  ye  shall 
see  yonder  fellowship  that  chaseth  now  these  men  in  our  side, 
that  they  shall  go  as  fast  backward  as  they  went  forward.  Sir, 
spare  not,  said  Sir  Lavaine,  for  I  shall  do  what  I  may.  Then  Sir 
Launcelot  and  Sir  Lavaine  came  in  at  the  thickest  of  the  press, 
and  there  Sir  Launcelot  smote  down  Sir  Brandiles,  Sir  Sagramore, 
Sir  Dodinas,  Sir  Kay,  Sir  Griflet,  and  all  this  he  did  with  one 
spear ;  and  Sir  Lavaine  smote  down  Sir  Lucan  le  Butler  and  Sir 
Bedevere.  And  then  Sir  Launcelot  gat  another  spear,  and  there 
he  smote  down  Sir  Agravaine,  Sir  Gaheris,  and  Sir  Mordred,  and 
Sir  Meliot  de  Logris ;  and  Sir  Lavaine  smote  Ozanna  le  Cure 
Hardy.  And  then  Sir  Launcelot  drew  his  sword,  and  there  he 
smote  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left  hand,  and  by  great 
force  he  unhorsed  Sir  Safere,  Sir  Epinogris,  and  Sir  Galleron ; 
and  then  the  knights  of  the  Table  Round  withdrew  them  back, 
after  they  had  gotten  their  horses  as  well  as  they  might.  O 
mercy  Jesu,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  what  knight  is  yonder  that  doth 
so  marvellous  deeds  of  arms  in  that  field  ?  I  wot  well  what  he 
is,  said  King  Arthur,  but  as  at  this  time  I  will  not  name  him. 
Sir,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  I  would  say  it  were  Sir  Launcelot  by  his 
riding  and  his  buffets  that  I  see  him  deal,  but  ever  meseemeth 
it  should  not  be  he  for  that  he  beareth  the  red  sleeve  upon  his 


34  SIR  THOMAS   MALORY 

head,  for  I  wist  him  never  bear  token  at  no  jousts  of  lady  nor 
gentlewoman.  Let  him  be,  said  King  Arthur,  he  will  be  better 
known  and  do  more  or  ever  he  depart.  Then  the  party  that  was 
against  King  Arthur  were  well  comforted,  and  then  they  held 
them  together  that  beforehand  were  sore  rebuked.  Then  Sir 
Bors,  Sir  Ector  de  Maris,  and  Sir  Lionel  called  unto  them  the 
knights  of  their  blood,  as  Sir  Blamore  de  Ganis,  Sir  Bleoberis, 
Sir  Aliduke,  Sir  Galihud,  Sir  Galihodin,  Sir  Bellangere  le  Beuse. 
So  these  nine  knights  of  Sir  Launcelot's  kin  thrust  in  mightily, 
for  they  were  all  noble  knights  ;  and  they,  of  great  hate  and  de- 
spite that  they  had  unto  him,  thought  to  rebuke  that  noble  knight 
Sir  Launcclot,  and  Sir  Lavaine,  for  they  knew  them  not ;  and 
so  they  came  hurling  together,  and  smote  down  many  knights  of 
Northgalis  and  of  Northumberland.  And  when  Sir  Launcelot 
saw  them  fare  so,  he  gat  a  spear  in  his  hand  ;  and  there  encoun- 
tered with  him  all  at  once  Sir  Bors,  Sir  Ector,  and  Sir  Lionel, 
and  all  they  three  smote  him  at  once  with  their  spears.  And 
with  force  of  thcmself  they  smote  Sir  Launcelot's  horse  to  the 
earth  ;  and  by  misfortune  Sir  Bors  smote  Sir  Launcelot  through 
the  shield  into  the  side,  and  the  spear  brake,  and  the  head  left 
still  in  his  side.  When  Sir  Lavaine  saw  his  master  lie  on  the 
ground,  he  ran  to  the  King  of  Scots  and  smote  him  to  the  earth  ; 
and  by  great  force  he  took  his  horse,  and  brought  him  to  Sir 
Launcelot,  and  maugre  of  them  all  he  made  him  to  mount  upon 
that  horse.  And  then  Launcelot  gat  a  spear  in  his  hand,  and 
there  he  smote  Sir  Bors,  horse  and  man,  to  the  earth.  In  the 
same  wise  he  served  Sir  Ector  and  Sir  Lionel ;  and  Sir  Lavaine 
smote  down  Sir  Blamore  de  Ganis.  And  then  Sir  Launcelot 
drew  his  sword,  for  he  felt  himself  so  sore  and  hurt  that  he  weened 
there  to  have  had  his  death.  And  then  he  smote  Sir  Bleoberis 
such  a  bufTet  on  the  helm  that  he  fell  down  to  the  earth  in  a 
swoon.  And  in  the  same  wise  he  served  Sir  Ahduke  and  Sir 
Galihud.  And  Sir  Lavaine  smote  down  Sir  Bellangere,  that  was 
the  son  of  Alisander  Ic  Orphelin.  And  by  this  was  Sir  Bors 
horsed,  and  then  he  came  with  Sir  Ector  and  Sir  Lionel,  and  all 
they  three  smote  with  swords  ujion  Sir  Launcelot's  helmet. 
.\nfl  when  he  felt  their  l)ulTets  and  his  wound,  the  which  w^as  so 
grievous,  then  he  thought  to  do  what  he  might  while  he  might 


LE   MORTE   D'ARTHUR 


35 


endure.  And  then  he  gave  Sir  Bors  such  a  buffet  that  he  made 
him  bow  his  head  passing  low ;  and  therewithal  he  raced  off  his 
helm,  and  might  have  slain  him ;  and  so  pulled  him  down,  and 
in  the  same  wise  he  served  Sir  Ector  and  Sir  Lionel.  For  as  the 
book  saith  he  might  have  slain  them,  but  when  he  saw  their 
visages  his  heart  might  not  serve  him  thereto,  but  left  them  there. 
And  then  afterward  he  hurled  into  the  thickest  press  of  them  all, 
and  did  there  the  marvelloust  deeds  of  arms  that  ever  man  saw 
or  heard  speak  of,  and  ever  Sir  Lavaine,  the  good  knight,  with 
him.  And  there  Sir  Launcelot  with  his  sword  smote  down  and 
pulled  down,  as  the  French  book  maketh  mention,  more  than 
thirty  knights,  and  the  most  part  were  of  the  Table  Round ; 
and  Sir  Lavaine  did  full  well  that  day,  for  he  smote  down  ten 
knights  of  the  Table  Round. 

CHAPTER   XII 

How  Sir    Launcelot  and  Sir  Lavaine    departed  out  of  the 
Field,  and  in  what  Jeopardy  Launcelot  Was 

Mercy  Jesu,  said  Sir  Gawaine  to  Arthur,  I  marvel  what 
knight  that  he  is  with  the  red  sleeve.  Sir,  said  King  Arthur,  he 
will  be  known  or  he  depart.  And  then  the  king  blew  unto  lodg- 
ing, and  the  prize  was  given  by  heralds  unto  the  knight  with  the 
white  shield  that  bare  the  red  sleeve.  Then  came  the  King  with 
the  Hundred  Knights,  the  King  of  Northgalis,  and  the  King  of 
Northumberland,  and  Sir  Galahad,  the  haut  prince,  and  said  unto 
Sir  Launcelot :  Fair  knight,  God  thee  bless,  for  much  have  ye 
done  this  day  for  us,  therefore  we  pray  you  that  ye  will  come  with 
us  that  ye  may  receive  the  honour  and  the  prize  as  ye  have  wor- 
shipfully  deserved  it.  My  fair  lords,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  wit 
you  well  if  I  have  deserved  thanks  I  have  sore  bought  it,  and 
that  me  repenteth,  for  I  am  like  never  to  escape  with  my  hfe ; 
therefore,  fair  lords,  I  pray  you  that  ye  will  suffer  me  to  depart 
where  me  hketh,  for  I  am  sore  hurt.  I  take  none  force  of  none 
honour,  for  I  had  lever  to  repose  me  than  to  be  lord  of  all  the 
world.  And  therewithal  he  groaned  piteously,  and  rode  a  great 
wallop  away  ward  from  them  until  he  came  under  a  wood's  side. 


36  SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 

And  when  he  saw  that  he  w^as  from  the  field  nigh  a  mile,  that  he 
was  sure  he  might  not  be  seen,  then  he  said  with  an' high  voice : 

0  gentle  knight,  Sir  Lavaine,  help  me  that  this  truncheon  were 
out  of  my  side,  for  it  sticketh  so  sore  that  it  nigh  slayeth  me.  O 
mine  own  lord,  said  Sir  Lavaine,  I  would  fain  do  that  might 
please  you,  but  I  dread  me  sore  an  I  pull  out  the  truncheon  that 
ye  shall  be  in  peril  of  death.  I  charge  you,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  as 
ye  love  me,  draw  it  out.  And  therewithal  he  descended  from  his 
horse,  and  right  so  did  Sir  Lavaine ;  and  forthwithal  Sir  Lavaine 
drew  the  truncheon  out  of  his  side,  and  he  gave  a  great  shriek 
and  a  marvellous  grisely  groan,  and  the  blood  brast  out  nigh 
a  pint  at  once,  that  at  the  last  he  sank  down  upon  his  buttocks, 
and  so  swooned  pale  and  deadly.  Alas,  said  Sir  Lavaine,  what 
shall  I  do  ?  And  then  he  turned  Sir  Launcelot  into  the  wind, 
but  so  he  lay  there  nigh  half  an  hour  as  he  had  been  dead.  And 
so  at  the  last  Sir  Launcelot  cast  up  his  eyes,  and  said  :  O  Lavaine, 
help  me  that  I  were  on  my  horse,  for  here  is  fast  by  within  this 
two  mile  a  gentle  herm.it  that  sometime  was  a  full  noble  knight 
and  a  great  lord  of  possessions.  And  for  great  goodness  he  hath 
taken  him  to  wilful  poverty,  and  forsaken  many  lands,  and  his 
name  is  Sir  Baudwin  of  Brittany,  and  he  is  a  full  noble  surgeon 
and  a  good  leech.  Now  let  see,  help  me  up  that  I  were  there,  for 
ever  my  heart  giveth  me  that  I  shall  never  die  of  my  cousin- 
germain's  hands.  And  then  with  great  pain  Sir  Lavaine  halp 
him  upon  his  horse.  And  then  they  rode  a  great  wallop  together, 
and  ever  Sir  Launcelot  bled  that  it  ran  down  to  the  earth  ;  and 
so  by  fortune  they  came  to  that  hermitage  the  which  was  under 
a  wood,  and  a  great  cliff  on  the  other  side,  and  a  fair  water  run- 
ning under  it.  And  then  Sir  Lavaine  beat  on  the  gate  with  the 
butt  of  his  spear,  and  cried  fast:  Let  in  for  Jcsu's  sake.  And 
there  came  a  fair  child  to  them,  and  asked  them  what  they  would. 
Fair  son,  said  Sir  Lavaine,  go  and  pray  thy  lord,  the  hermit,  for 
God's  sake  to  let  in  here  a  knight  that  is  full  sore  wounded  ;  and 
this  day  tell  thy  lord  I  saw  him  do  more  deeds  of  arms  than  ever 

1  heard  say  that  any  man  did.  So  the  child  went  in  tightly,  and 
then  he  brought  the  hermit,  the  which  was  a  passing  good  man. 
When  Sir  Lavaine  saw  him  he  prayed  him  for  God's  sake  of  suc- 
cour.    What  knight  is  he?  said  the  hermit.     Is  he  of  the  house 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  37 

of  King  Arthur,  or  not  ?  I  wot  not,  said  Sir  Lavaine,  what  is  he, 
nor  what  is  his  name,  but  well  I  wot  I  saw  him  do  marvellously 
this  day  as  of  deeds  of  arms.  On  whose  party  was  he  ?  said  the 
hermit.  Sir,  said  Sir  Lavaine,  he  was  this  day  against  King 
Arthur,  and  there  he  won  the  prize  of  all  the  knights  of  the 
Round  Table.  I  have  seen  the  day,  said  the  hermit,  I  would  have 
loved  him  the  worse  by  cause  he  was  against  my  lord.  King  Ar- 
thur, for  sometime  I  was  one  of  the  fellowship  of  the  Round 
Table,  but  I  thank  God  now  I  am  otherwise  disposed.  But  where 
is  he  ?  let  me  see  him.  Then  Sir  Lavaine  brought  the  hermit  to 
him. 

CHAPTER  XIII 

How  Launcelot  was  brought  to  an  Hermit  to  be  healed  of  his 
Wound,  and  of  Other  Matters 

And  when  the  hermit  beheld  him,  as  he  sat  leaning  upon  his 
saddle  bow  ever  bleeding  piteously,  and  ever  the  knight  hermit 
thought  that  he  should  know  him,  but  he  could  not  bring  him  to 
knowledge  by  cause  he  was  so  pale  for  bleeding.  What  knight 
are  ye,  said  the  hermit,  and  where  were  ye  born  ?  My  fair  lord, 
said  Sir  Launcelot,  I  am  a  stranger  and  a  knight  adventurous, 
that  laboureth  throughout  many  realms  for  to  win  worship. 
Then  the  hermit  advised  him  better,  and  saw  by  a  wound  on  his 
cheek  that  he  was  Sir  Launcelot.  Alas,  said  the  hermit,  mine 
own  lord  why  layne  you  your  name  from  me  ?  Forsooth  I  ought 
to  know  you  of  right,  for  ye  are  the  most  noblest  knight  of  the 
world,  for  well  I  know  you  for  Sir  Launcelot.  Sir,  said  he,  sith 
ye  know  me  help  me  an  ye  may,  for  God's  sake,  for  I  would  be 
out  of  this  pain  at  once,  either  to  death  or  to  hfe.  Have  ye  no 
doubt,  said  the  hermit,  ye  shall  live  and  fare  right  well.  And  so 
the  hermit  called  to  him  two  of  his  servants,  and  so  he  and  his 
servants  bare  him  into  the  hermitage,  and  lightly  unarmed  him, 
and  laid  him  in  his  bed.  And  then  anon  the  hermit  staunched 
his  blood,  and  made  him  to  drink  good  wine,  so  that  Sir  Launcelot 
was  well  refreshed  and  knew  himself ;  for  in  these  days  it  was  not 
the  guise  of  hermits  as  is  nowadays,  for  there  were  none  hermits 
in  those  days  but  that  they  had  been  men  of  worship  and  of 


38  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

prowess ;  and  those  hermits  held  great  household,  and  refreshed 
people  that  were  in  distress.  Now  turn  we  unto  King  Arthur, 
and  leave  we  Sir  Launcelot  in  the  hermitage.  So  when  the  kings 
were  come  together  on  both  parties,  and  the  great  feast  should  be 
holden.  King  Arthur  asked  the  King  of  Northgalis  and  their 
fellowship,  where  was  that  knight  that  bare  the  red  sleeve  :  Bring 
him  afore  me  that  he  may  have  his  laud,  and  honour,  and  the 
prize,  as  it  is  right.  Then  spake  Sir  Galahad,  the  haut  prince, 
and  the  King  with  the  Hundred  Knights :  We  suppose  that 
knight  is  mischievcd,  and  that  he  is  never  like  to  see  you  nor  none 
of  us  all,  and  that  is  the  greatest  pity  that  ever  we  wist  of  any 
knight.  Alas,  said  Arthur,  how  may  this  be,  is  he  so  hurt? 
What  is  his  name  ?  said  King  Arthur.  Truly,  said  they  all,  we 
know  not  his  name,  nor  from  whence  he  came,  nor  whither  he 
would.  Alas,  said  the  king,  this  be  to  me  the  worst  tidings  that 
came  to  me  this  seven  year,  for  I  would  not  for  all  the  lands  I 
welde  to  know  and  wit  it  were  so  that  that  noble  knight  were 
slain.  Know  ye  him  ?  said  they  all.  As  for  that,  said  Arthur, 
whether  I  know  him  or  know  him  not,  ye  shall  not  know  for  me 
what  man  he  is,  but  Almighty  Jesu  send  me  good  tidings  of  him. 
And  so  said  they  all.  By  my  head,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  if  it  so  be 
that  the  good  knight  be  so  sore  hurt,  it  is  great  damage  and  pity 
to  all  this  land,  for  he  is  one  of  the  noblest  knights  that  ever  I 
saw  in  a  field  handle  a  spear  or  a  sword  ;  and  if  he  may  be  found 
I  shall  find  him,  for  I  am  sure  he  nys  not  far  from  this  town. 
Bear  you  well,  said  King  Arthur,  an  ye  may  find  him,  unless  that 
he  be  in  such  a  i)light  that  he  may  not  welde  himself.  Jesu  de- 
fend, said  Sir  Gawaine,  but  wit  I  shall  what  he  is,  an  I  may  find 
him.  Right  so  Sir  Gawaine  took  a  squire  with  him  upon  hack- 
neys, and  rode  all  about  Camelot  within  six  or  seven  mile,  but  so 
he  came  again  and  could  hear  no  word  of  him.  Then  within 
two  days  King  Arthur  and  all  the  fellowship  returned  unto 
London  again.  And  so  as  they  rode  by  the  way  it  happed  Sir 
(iawaine  at  Astolat  to  lodge  with  Sir  Bernard  thereas  was  Sir 
Launcelot  lodged.  And  so  as  Sir  Gawaine  was  in  his  chamber  to 
repose  him  Sir  Bernard,  the  old  baron,  came  unto  him,  and  his 
daughter  Elaine,  to  cheer  him  and  to  ask  him  what  tidings,  and 
who  did  best  at  that  tournament  of  Winchester.     So  God  me  help, 


LE    MORTE   D 'ARTHUR 


39 


said  Sir  Gawaine,  there  were  two  knights  that  bare  two  white 
shields,  but  th'.*  one  of  them  bare  a  red  sleeve  upon  his  head,  and 
certainly  he  was  one  of  the  best  knights  that  ever  I  saw  joust  in 
field.  For  I  dare  say,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  that  one  knight  with  the 
red  sleeve  smote  down  forty  knights  of  the  Table  Round,  and  his 
fellow  did  right  well  and  worshipfully.  Now  blessed  be  God, 
said  the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat,  that  that  knight  sped  so  well, 
for  he  is  the  man  in  the  world  that  I  first  loved,  and  truly  he  shall 
be  last  that  ever  I  shall  love.  Now,  fair  maid,  said  Sir  Gawaine, 
is  that  good  knight  your  love  ?  Certainly  sir,  said  she,  wit  ye 
well  he  is  my  love.  Then  know  ye  his  name  ?  said  Sir  Gawaine. 
Nay  truly,  said  the  damosel,  I  know  not  his  name  nor  from 
whence  he  cometh,  but  to  say  that  I  love  him,  I  promise  you  and 
God  that  I  love  him.  How  had  ye  knowledge  of  him  first? 
said  Sir  Gawaine. 

CHAPTER  XIV 
How  Sir  Gawaine  was  lodged  with  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  and 

THERE    HAD    KNOWLEDGE    THAT    IT    WAS    SiR    LaUNCELOT 
THAT  BARE  THE  ReD  SlEEVE 

Then  she  told  him  as  ye  have  heard  tofore,  and  how  her  father 
betook  him  her  brother  to  do  him  service,  and  how  her  father 
lent  him  her  brother's,  Sir  Tirre's,  shield  :  And  here  with  me  he 
left  his  own  shield.  For  what  cause  did  he  so  ?  said  Sir  Gawaine. 
For  this  cause,  said  the  damosel,  for  his  shield  was  too  well 
known  among  many  noble  knights.  Ah  fair  damosel,  said  Sir 
Gawaine,  please  it  you  let  me  have  a  sight  of  that  shield.  Sir, 
said  she,  it  is  in  my  chamber,  covered  with  a  case,  and  if  ye  will 
come  with  me  ye  shall  see  it.  Not  so,  said  Sir  Bernard  till  his 
daughter,  let  send  for  it.  So  when  the  shield  was  come.  Sir 
Gawaine  took  off  the  case,  and  when  he  beheld  that  shield  he 
knew  anon  that  it  was  Sir  Launcelot's  shield,  and  his  own  arms. 
Ah  Jesu  mercy,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  now  is  my  heart  more  heavier 
than  ever  it  was  tofore.  Why  ?  said  Elaine.  For  I  have  great 
cause,  said  Sir  Gawaine.  Is  that  knight  that  oweth  this  shield 
your  love  ?     Yea  truly,  said  she,  my  love  he  is,  God  would  I  were 


40  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

his  love.     So  God  me  speed,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  fair  damosel  ye 
have  right,  for  an  he  be  your  love  ye  love  the  most  honourable 
knight  of  the  world,  and  the  man  of  most  worship.     So  me 
thought  ever,  said  the  damosel,  for  never  or  that  time,  for  no 
knight  that  ever  I  saw,  loved  I  never  none  erst.     God  grant,  said 
Sir  Gawaine,  that  either  of  you  may  rejoice  other,  but  that  is  in 
a  great  adventure.     But  truly,  said  Sir  Gawaine  unto  the  dam- 
osel, ye  may  say  he  have  a  fair  grace,  for  why  I  have  known  that 
noble  knight  this  four  and  twenty  year,  and  never  or  that  day, 
I  nor  none  other  knight,  I  dare  make  good,  saw  nor  heard  say 
that  ever  he  bare  token  or  sign  of  no  lady,  gentlewoman,  ne 
maiden,  at  no  jousts  nor  tournament.    And  therefore,  fair  maiden, 
said  Sir  Gawaine,  ye  are  much  beholden  to  him  to  give  him 
thanks.     But  I  dread  me,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  that  ye  shall  never 
see  him  in  this  world,  and  that  is  great  pity  that  ever  was  of 
earthly  knight.     Alas,  said  she,  how  may  this  be,  is  he  slain  ?     I 
say  not  so,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  but  wit  ye  well  he  is  grievously 
wounded,  by  all  manner  of  signs,  and  by  men's  sight  more  like- 
lier to  be  dead  than  to  be  on  live  ;  and  wit  ye  well  he  is  the  noble 
knight,  Sir  Launcelot,  for  by  this  shield  I  know  him.     Alas,  said 
the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat,  how  may  this  be,  and  what  was  his 
hurt?     Truly,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  the  man  in  the  world  that  loved 
him  best  hurt  him  so  ;  and  I  dare  say,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  an  that 
knight  that  hurt  him  knew  the  very  certainty  that  he  had  hurt 
Sir  Launcelot,  it  would  be  the  most  sorrow  that  ever  came  to  his 
heart.     Now  fair  father,  said  then  Elaine,  I  require  you  give  me 
leave  to  ride  and  to  seek  him,  or  else  I  wot  well  I  shall  go  out  of 
my  mind,  for  I  shall  never  stint  till  that  I  find  him  and  my 
brother,  Sir  Lavaine.     Do  as  it  liketh  you,  said  her  father,  for 
me  sore  repenteth  of  the  hurt  of  that  noble  knight.     Right  so 
they  made  her  ready,  and  before  Sir  Gawaine,  making  great  dole. 
Then  on  the  morn  Sir  Gawaine  came  to  King  Arthur,  and  told 
him  how  he  had  found  Sir  Launcelot's  shield  in  the  keeping  of 
the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat.     All  that  knew  I  aforehand,  said 
King  Arthur,  and  that  caused  me  I  would  not  suffer  you  to  have 
ado  at  the  great  jousts,  for  I  espied,  said  King  Arthur,  when  he 
came  in  till  his  lodging  full  late  in  the  evening  in  Astolat.     But 
marvel  have  I,  said  Arthur,  that  ever  he  would  bear  any  sign 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  41 

of  any  damosel,  for  or  now  I  never  heard  say  nor  knew  that  ever 
he  bare  any  token  of  none  earthly  woman.  By  my  head,  said 
Sir  Gawaine,  the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat  loveth  him  marvellously 
well ;  what  it  meaneth  I  cannot  say,  and  she  is  ridden  after  to 
seek  him.  So  the  king  and  all  came  to  London,  and  there  Sir 
Gawaine  openly  disclosed  to  all  the  Court  that  it  was  Sir  Launce- 
lot  that  jousted  best. 

CHAPTER  XV 

Of  the  Sorrow  that  Sir  Bors  had  for  the  Hurt  of  Launcelot  ; 
AND  OF  the  Anger  that  the  Queen  had  because 
'     Launcelot  bare  the  Sleeve 

And  when  Sir  Bors  heard  that,  wit  ye  well  he  was  an  heavy 
man,  and  so  were  all  his  kinsmen.  But  when  Queen  Guenever 
wist  that  Sir  Launcelot  bare  the  red  sleeve  of  the  fair  maiden  of 
Astolat  she  was  nigh  out  of  her  mind  for  wrath.  And  then  she 
sent  for  Sir  Bors  de  Ganis  in  all  the  haste  that  might  be.  So 
when  Sir  Bors  was  come  tofore  the  queen,  then  she  said :  Ah 
Sir  Bors,  have  ye  heard  say  how  falsely  Sir  Launcelot  hath  be- 
trayed me  ?  Alas  madam,  said  Sir  Bors,  I  am  afeared  he  hath 
betrayed  himself  and  us  all.  No  force,  said  the  queen,  though 
he  be  destroyed,  for  he  is  a  false  traitor  knight.  Madam,  said 
Sir  Bors,  I  pray  you  say  ye  not  so,  for  wit  you  well  I  may  not  hear 
such  language  of  him.  Why  Sir  Bors,  said  she,  should  I  not  call 
him  traitor  when  he  bare  the  red  sleeve  upon  his  head  at  Win- 
chester, at  the  great  jousts  ?  Madam,  said  Sir  Bors,  that  sleeve 
bearing  repenteth  me  sore,  but  I  dare  say  he  did  it  to  none  evil 
intent,  but  for  this  cause  he  bare  the  red  sleeve  that  none  of 
his  blood  should  know  him.  For  or  then  we  nor  none  of  us  all 
never  knew  that  ever  he  bare  token  or  sign  of  maid,  lady,  ne 
gentlewoman.  Fie  on  him,  said  the  queen,  yet  for  all  his  pride 
and  bobaunce  there  ye  proved  yourself  his  better.  Nay  madam, 
say  ye  never  more  so,  for  he  beat  me  and  my  fellows,  and  might 
have  slain  us  an  he  had  would.  Fie  on  him,  said  the  queen,  for 
I  heard  Sir  Gawaine  say  before  my  lord  Arthur  that  it  were  marvel 
to  tell  the  great  love  that  is  between  the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat 


42  SIR  THOMAS   MALORY 

and  him.  Madam,  said  Sir  Bors,  I  may  not  warn  Sir  Gawaine 
to  say  what  it  pleased  him ;  but  I  dare  say,  as  for  my  lord,  Sir 
Launcelot,  that  he  loveth  no  lady,  gentlewoman,  nor  maid,  but 
all  he  loveth  in  like  much.  And  therefore  madam,  said  Sir  Bors, 
ye  may  say  what  ye  will,  but  wit  ye  well  I  will  haste  me  to  seek 
him,  and  find  him  wheresomever  he  be,  and  God  send  me  good 
tidings  of  him.  And  so  leave  we  them  there,  and  speak  we  of 
Sir  Launcelot  that  lay  in  great  peril.  So  as  fair  Elaine  came  to 
Winchester  she  sought  there  all  about,  and  by  fortune  Sir  La- 
vaine  was  ridden  to  play  him,  to  enchafe  his  horse.  And  anon  as 
Elaine  saw  him  she  knew  him,  and  then  she  cried  on  loud  until 
him.  And  when  he  heard  her  anon  he  came  to  her,  and  then  she 
asked  her  brother  how  did  my  lord.  Sir  Launcelot.  Who  told 
you,  sister,  that  my  lord's  name  was  Sir  Launcelot  ?  Then  she 
told  him  how  Sir  Gawaine  by  his  shield  knew  him.  So  they  rode 
together  till  that  they  came  to  the  hermitage,  and'  anon  she  alit. 
So  Sir  Lavaine  brought  her  in  to  Sir  Launcelot ;  and  when  she 
saw  him  lie  so  sick  and  pale  in  his  bed  she  might  not  speak,  but 
suddenly  she  fell  to  the  earth  down  suddenly  in  a  swoon,  and 
there  she  lay  a  great  while.  And  when  she  was  relieved,  she 
shrieked  and  said  :  My  lord.  Sir  Launcelot,  alas  why  be  ye  in 
this  plight  ?  and  then  she  swooned  again.  And  then  Sir  Launce- 
lot prayed  Sir  Lavaine  to  tak^  her  up  :  And  bring  her  to  me. 
And  when  she  came  to  herself  Sir  Launcelot  kissed  her,  and  said  : 
Fair  maiden,  why  fare  ye  thus  ?  ye  put  me  to  pain ;  wherefore 
make  ye  no  more  such  cheer,  for  an  ye  be  come  to  comfort  me  ye 
be  right  welcome ;  and  of  this  httle  hurt  that  I  have  I  shall  be 
right  hastily  whole  by  the  grace  of  God.  But  I  marvel,  said  Sir 
Launcelot,  who  told  you  my  name  ?  Then  the  fair  maiden  told 
him  all  how  Sir  Gawaine  was  lodged  with  her  father :  And  there 
by  your  shield  he  discovered  your  name.  Alas,  said  Sir  Launce- 
lot, that  me  repenteth  that  my  name  is  known,  for  I  am  sure  it 
will  turn  unto  anger.  And  then  Sir  Launcelot  compassed  in  his 
mind  that  Sir  Gawaine  would  tell  Queen  Guenever  how  he  bare 
the  red  sleeve,  and  for  whom ;  that  he  wist  well  would  turn  into 
great  anger.  So  this  maiden  Elaine  never  went  from  Sir  Launce- 
lot, but  watched  him  day  and  night,  and  did  such  attendance  to 
him,  that  the  French  book  saith  there  was  never  woman  did  more 


LE    MORTE   D 'ARTHUR 


43 


kindlier  for  man  than  she.  Then  Sir  Launcelot  prayed  Sir 
Lavaine  to  make  aspies  in  Winchester  for  Sir  Bors  if  he  came 
there,  and  told  him  by  what  tokens  he  should  know  him,  by  a 
wound  in  his  forehead.  For  well  I  am  sure,  said  Sir  Launcelot, 
that  Sir  Bors  will  seek  me,  for  he  is  the  same  good  knight  that 
hurt  me. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

How  Sir  Bors  sought  Launcelot  and  found  him  in  the  Her- 
mitage, AND  of  the  Lamentations  between  Them 

Now  turn  we  unto  Sir  Bors  de  Ganis  that  came  unto  Winches- 
ter to  seek  after  his  cousin  Sir  Launcelot.  And  so  when  he  came 
to  Winchester,  anon  there  were  men  that  Sir  Lavaine  had  made 
to  lie  in  a  watch  for  such  a  man,  and  anon  Sir  Lavaine  had  warn- 
ing ;  and  then  Sir  Lavaine  came  to  Winchester  and  found  Sir 
Bors,  and  there  he  told  him  what  he  was,  and  with  whom  he  was, 
and  what  was  his  name.  Now  fair  knight,  said  Sir  Bors,  I  re- 
quire you  that  ye  will  bring  me  to  my  lord.  Sir  Launcelot.  Sir, 
said  Sir  Lavaine,  take  your  horse,  and  within  this  hour  ye  shall 
see  him.  And  so  they  departed,  and  came  to  the  hermitage. 
And  when  Sir  Bors  saw  Sir  Launcelot  lie  in  his  bed  pale  and  dis- 
coloured, anon  Sir  Bors  lost  his  countenance,  and  for  kindness 
and  pity  he  might  not  speak,  but  wept  tenderly  a  great  while. 
And  then  when  he  might  speak  he  said  thus :  O  my  lord.  Sir 
Launcelot,  God  you  bless,  and  send  you  hasty  recover ;  and  full 
heavy  am  I  of  my  misfortune  and  of  mine  unhappiness,  for  now 
I  may  call  myself  unhappy.  And  I  dread  me  that  God  is  greatly 
displeased  with  me,  that  he  would  suffer  me  to  have  such  a  shame 
for  to  hurt  you  that  are  all  our  leader,  and  all  our  worship ;  and 
therefore  I  call  myself  unhappy.  Alas  that  ever  such  a  caitiff 
knight  as  I  am  should  have  power  by  unhappiness  to  hurt  the 
most  noblest  knight  of  the  world.  Where  I  so  shamefully  set 
upon  you  and  overcharged  you,  and  where  ye  might  have  slain 
me,  ye  saved  me ;  and  so  did  not  I,  for  I  and  your  blood  did  to 
you  our  utterance.  I  marvel,  said  Sir  Bors,  that  my  heart  or 
my  blood  would  serve  me,  wherefore  my  lord.  Sir  Launcelot,  I 


44  SIR  THOMAS   MALORY 

ask  your  mercy.  Fair  cousin,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  ye  be  right 
welcome ;  and  wit  ye  well,  overmuch  ye  say  for  to  please  me  the 
which  pleaseth  me  not,  for  why  I  have  the  same  I  sought ;  for 
I  would  with  pride  have  overcome  you  all,  and  there  in  my  pride 
I  was  near  slain,  and  that  was  in  mine  own  default,  for  I  might 
have  given  you  warning  of  my  being  there.  And  then  had  I  had 
no  hurt,  for  it  is  an  old  said  saw,  there  is  hard  battle  there  as  kin 
and  friends  do  battle  either  against  other,  there  may  be  no  mercy 
but  mortal  war.  Therefore,  fair  cousin,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  let 
this  speech  overpass,  and  all  shall  be  welcome  that  God  sendeth  ; 
and  let  us  leave  off  this  matter  and  let  us  speak  of  some  rejoicing, 
for  this  that  is  done  may  not  be  undone;  and  let  us  find  a 
remedy  how  soon  that  I  may  be  whole.  Then  Sir  Bors  leaned 
upon  his  bedside,  and  told  Sir  Launcelot  how  the  queen  was 
passing  wroth  with  him,  by  cause  he  wore  the  red  sleeve  at  the 
great  jousts ;  and  there  Sir  Bors  told  him  all  how  Sir  Gawaine 
discovered  it :  By  your  shield  that  ye  left  with  the  fair  maiden  of 
Astolat.  Then  is  the  queen  wroth,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  and  there- 
fore am  I  right  heavy,  for  I  deserved  no  wrath,  for  all  that  I  did 
was  by  cause  I  would  not  be  known.  Right  so  excused  I  you, 
said  Sir  Bors,  but  all  was  in  vain,  for  she  said  more  largelier  to  me 
than  I  to  you  now.  But  is  this  she,  said  Sir  Bors,  that  is  so  busy 
about  you,  that  men  call  the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat  ?  She  it  is, 
said  Sir  Launcelot,  that  by  no  means  I  cannot  put  her  from  me. 
Why  should  ye  put  her  from  you  ?  said  Sir  Bors,  she  is  a  passing 
fair  damosel,  and  a  well  bisene,  and  well  taught ;  and  God  would, 
fair  cousin,  said  Sir  Bors,  that  ye  could  love  her,  but  as  to  that 
I  may  not,  nor  I  dare  not,  counsel  you.  But  I  see  well,  said  Sir 
Bors,  by  her  diligence  about  you  that  she  loveth  you  entirely. 
That  me  repenteth,  said  Sir  Launcelot.  Sir,  said  Sir  Bors,  she  is 
not  the  first  that  hath  lost  her  pain  upon  you,  and  that  is  the 
more  pity :  and  so  they  talked  of  many  more  things.  And  so 
within  three  days  or  four  Sir  Launcelot  was  big  and  strong  again. 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR 


CHAPTER  XVII 


45 


How  Sir  Launcelot  armed  him  to  assay  if  he  might  bear  Arms, 
AND  HOW  HIS  Wound  burst  out  Again 

Then  Sir  Bors  told  Sir  Launcelot  how  there  was  sworn  a  great 
tournament  and  jousts  betwixt  King  Arthur  and  the  King  of 
Northgahs,  that  should  be  upon  All  Hallowmass  Day,  beside 
Winchester.  Is  that  truth  ?  said  Sir  Launcelot ;  then  shall  ye 
abide  with  me  still  a  little  while  until  that  I  be  whole,  for  I  feel 
myself  right  big  and  strong.  Blessed  be  God,  said  Sir  Bors. 
Then  were  they  there  nigh  a  month  together,  and  ever  this 
maiden  Elaine  did  ever  her  diligent  labour  night  and  day  unto 
Sir  Launcelot,  that  there  was  never  child  nor  wife  more  meeker 
to  her  father  and  husband  than  was  that  fair  maiden  of  Astolat ; 
wherefore  Sir  Bors  was  greatly  pleased  with  her.  So  upon  a  day, 
by  the  assent  of  Sir  Launcelot,  Sir  Bors,  and  Sir  Lavaine,  they 
made  the  hermit  to  seek  in  woods  for  divers  herbs,  and  so  Sir 
Launcelot  made  fair  Elaine  to  gather  herbs  for  him  to  make  him  a 
bain.  In  the  meanwhile  Sir  Launcelot  made  him  to  arm  him  at  all 
pieces ;  and  there  he  thought  to  essay  his  armour  and  his  spear, 
for  his  hurt  or  not.  And  so  when  he  was  upon  his  horse  he  stirred 
him  fiercely,  and  the  horse  was  passing  lusty  and  fresh  by  cause 
he  was  not  laboured  a  month  afore.  And  then  Sir  Launcelot 
couched  that  spear  in  the  rest.  That  courser  leapt  mightily 
when  he  felt  the  spurs  ;  and  he  that  was  upon  him  the  which  was 
the  noblest  horse  of  the  world,  strained  him  mightily  and  stably 
and  kept  still  the  spear  in  the  rest ;  and  therewith  Sir  Launcelot 
strained  himself  so  straightly,  with  so  great  force,  to  get  the 
horse  forward,  that  the  bottom  of  his  wound  brast  both  within 
and  without ;  and  therwithal  the  blood  came  out  so  fiercely  that 
he  felt  himself  so  feeble  that  he  might  not  sit  upon  his  horse. 
And  then  Sir  Launcelot  cried  unto  Sir  Bors :  Ah,  Sir  Bors  and 
Sir  Lavaine,  help,  for  I  am  come  to  mine  end.  And  therewith 
he  fell  down  on  the  one  side  to  the  earth  like  a  dead  corpse.  And 
then  Sir  Bors  and  Sir  Lavaine  came  to  him  with  sorrow  making 
out  of  measure.  And  so  by  fortune  the  maiden  Elaine  heard 
their  mourning,  and  then  she  came  thither ;  and  when  she  found 


46  SIR   THOMAS    MALORY 

Sir  Launcelot  there  armed  in  that  place  she  cried  and  wept  as 
she  had  been  wood ;  and  then  she  kissed  him,  and  did  what  she 
might  to  awake  him.  And  then  she  rebuked  her  brother  and 
Sir  Bors,  and  called  them  false  traitors,  why  they  would  take 
him  out  of  his  bed  ;  there  she  cried,  and  said  she  would  appel  them 
of  his  death.  With  this  came  the  holy  hermit,  Sir  Baudwin  of 
Brittany,  and  when  he  found  Sir  Launcelot  in  that  plight  he  said 
but  Httle,  but  wit  ye  well  he  was  wroth  ;  and  then  he  bad  them  : 
Let  us  have  him  in.  And  so  they  all  bare  him  u'nto  the  hermitage, 
and  unarmed  him,  and  laid  him  in  his  bed ;  and  evermore  his 
wound  bled  piteously,  but  he  stirred  no  Hmb  of  him.  Then  the 
knight  hermit  put  a  thing  in  his  nose  and  a  httle  dele  of  water 
in  his  mouth.  And  then  Sir  Launcelot  waked  of  his  swoon,  and 
then  the  hermit  staunched  his  bleeding.  And  when  he  might 
speak  he  asked  Sir  Launcelot  why  he  put  his  Ufe  in  jeopardy. 
Sir,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  by  cause  I  weened  I  had  been  strong, 
and  also  Sir  Bors  told  me  that  there  should  be  at  All  Hallowmass 
a  great  jousts  betwixt  King  Arthur  and  the  King  of  NorthgaUs, 
and  therefore  I  thought  to  essay  it  myself,  whether  I  might  be 
there  or  not.  Ah,  Sir  Launcelot,  said  the  hermit,  your  heart 
and  your  courage  will  never  be  done  until  your  last  day,  but  ye 
shall  do  now  by  my  counsel.  Let  Sir  Bors  depart  from  you,  and 
let  him  do  at  that  tournament  what  he  may  :  And  by  the  grace 
of  God,  said  the  knight  hermit,  by  that  the  tournament  be  done 
and  ye  come  thither  again.  Sir  Launcelot  shall  be  as  whole  as  ye, 
so  that  he  will  be  governed  by  me. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
How  Sir  Bors  returned  and  told  Tidings   of  Sir  Launcelot; 

AND  OF  THE  ToURNEY,  AND  TO  WHOM  THE  PrIZE  WAS  GiVEN 

Then  Sir  Bors  made  him  ready  to  depart  from  Sir  Launcelot ; 
and  then  Sir  Launcelot  said  :  Fair  Cousin,  Sir  Bors,  recommend 
me  unto  all  them  unto  whom  me  ought  to  recommend  me  unto. 
And  I  pray  you,  enforce  yourself  at  that  jousts  that  ye  may  be 
best,  for  my  love  ;  and  here  shall  I  abide  you  at  the  mercy  of  God 


LE    MORTE    D 'ARTHUR  47 

till  ye  come  again.  And  so  Sir  Bors  departed  and  came  to  the 
court  of  King  Arthur,  and  told  them  in  what  place  he  had  left 
Sir  Launcelot.  That  me  repenteth,  said  the  king,  but  syne  he 
shall  have  his  Hfe  we  all  may  thank  God.  And  there  Sir  Bors 
told  the  queen  in  what  jeopardy  Sir  Launcelot  was  when  he  would 
essay  his  horse.  And  all  that  he  did,  madam,  was  for  the  love 
of  you,  by  cause  he  would  have  been  at  this  tournament.  Fie 
on  him,  recreant  knight,  said  the  queen,  for  wit  ye  well  I  am  right 
sorry  an  he  shall  have  his  life.  His  hfe  shall  he  have,  said  Sir 
Bors,  and  who  that  would  otherwise  except  you,  madam,  we  that 
be  of  his  blood  should  help  to  short  their  lives.  But  madam, 
said  Sir  Bors,  ye  have  been  ofttimes  displeased  with  my  lord. 
Sir  Launcelot,  but  at  all  times  at  the  end  ye  find  him  a  true 
knight :  and  so  he  departed.  And  then  every  knight  of  the 
Round  Table  that  were  there  at  that  time  present  made  them 
ready  to  be  at  that  jousts  at  All  Hallowmass,  and  thither  drew 
many  knights  of  divers  countries.  And  as  All  Hollowmass  drew 
near,  thither  came  the  King  of  Northgalis,  and  the  King  with 
the  Hundred  Knights,  and  Sir  Galahad,  the  haut  prince,  of  Sur- 
luse,  and  thither  came  King  Anguish  of  Ireland,  and  the  King  of 
Scots.  So  these  three  kings  came  on  King  Arthur's  party.  And 
so  that  day  Sir  Gawaine  did  great  deeds  of  arms,  and  began  first. 
And  the  heralds  numbered  that  Sir  Gawaine  smote  down  twenty 
knights.  Then  Sir  Bors  de  Ganis  came  in  the  same  time,  and  he 
was  numbered  that  he  smote  down  twenty  knights ;  and  there- 
fore the  prize  was  given  betwixt  them  both,  for  they  began  first 
and  longest  endured.  Also  Sir  Gareth,  as  the  book  saith,  cHd 
that  day  great  deeds  of  arms,  for  he  smote  down  and  pulled  down 
thirty  knights.  But  when  he  had  done  these  deeds  he  tarried 
not  but  so  departed,  and  therefore  he  lost  his  prize.  And  Sir 
Palomides  did  great  deeds  of  arms  that  day,  for  he  smote  down 
twenty  knights,  but  he  departed  suddenly,  and  men  deemed  Sir 
Gareth  and  he  rode  together  to  some  manner  adventures.  So 
when  this  tournament  was  done  Sir  Bors  departed,  and  rode  till 
he  came  to  Sir  Launcelot,  his  cousin ;  and  then  he  found  him 
walking  on  his  feet,  and  there  either  made  great  joy  of  other ; 
and  so  Sir  Bors  told  Sir  Launcelot  of  all  the  jousts  Kke  as  ye  have 
heard.     I  marvel,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  that  Sir  Gareth,  when  he 


48  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

had  done  such  deeds  of  arms,  that  he  would  not  tarry.  Thereof 
we  marvelled  all,  said  Sir  Bors,  for  but  if  it  were  you,  or  Sir  Tris- 
tram, or  Sir  Lamorak  de  Galis,  I  saw  never  knight  bear  down  so 
many  in  so  little  a  while  as  did  Sir  Gareth  :  and  anon  as  he  was 
gone  we  wist  not  where.  By  my  head,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  he  is 
a  noble  knight,  and  a  mighty  man  and  well  breathed  ;  and  if  he 
were  well  essayed,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  I  would  deem  he  were  good 
enough  for  any  knight  that  beareth  the  life ;  and  he  is  a  gentle 
knight,  courteous,  true,  and  bounteous,  meek,  and  mild,  and  in 
him  is  no  manner  of  mal  engyn,  but  plain,  faithful,  and  true. 
So  then  they  made  them  ready  to  depart  from  the  hermit.  And 
so  upon  a  morn  they  took  their  horses  and  Elaine  le  Blank  with 
them ;  and  when  they  came  to  Astolat  there  were  they  well 
lodged,  and  had  great  cheer  of  Sir  Bernard,  the  old  baron,  and  of 
Sir  Tirre,  his  son.  And  so  upon  the  morn  when  Sir  Launcelot 
should  depart,  fair  Elaine  brought  her  father  with  her,  and  Sir 
Lavaine,  and  Sir  Tirre,  and  thus  she  said : 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Of  the  Great  Lamentation  of  the  Fair  Maid  of  Astolat  ^VHEN 
Launcelot  should  depart,  and  how  she  died  for  his  Love 

My  lord.  Sir  Launcelot,  now  I  see  ye  will  depart ;  now  fair 
knight  and  courteous  knight,  have  mercy  upon  me,  and  suffer  me 
not  to  die  for  thy  love.  What  would  ye  that  I  did  ?  said  Sir 
Launcelot.  I  would  have  you  to  my  husband,  said  Elaine.  Fair 
damoscl,  I  thank  you,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  but  truly,  said  he,  I 
cast  me  never  to  be  wedded  man.  Then,  fair  knight,  said  she, 
will  ye  be  my  paramour  ?  Jesu  defend  me,  said  Sir  Launcelot, 
for  then  I  rewarded  your  father  and  your  brother  full  evil  for 
their  great  goodness.  Alas,  said  she,  then  must  I  die  for  your 
love.  Ye  shall  not  so,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  for  wit  ye  well,  fair 
maiden,  I  might  have  been  married  an  I  had  would,  but  I  never 
applied  me  to  be  married  yet;  but  by  cause,  fair  damoscl,  that 
ye  love  me  as  ye  say  ye  do,  I  will  for  your  good  will  and  kindness 
show  you  some  goodness,  and  that  is  this,  that  whcresomcvcr  ye 
will  beset  your  heart  upon  some  good  knight  that  will  wed  you, 


LE    MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  49 

I  shall  give  you  together  a  thousand  pound  yearly  to  you  and  to 
your  heirs;  thus  much  will  I  give  you,  fair  madam,  for  your 
kindness,  and  always  while  I  Hve  to  be  your  own  knight.  Of  all 
this,  said  the  maiden,  I  will  none,  for  but  if  ye  will  wed  me,  or 
else  be  my  paramour  at  the  least,  wit  you  well.  Sir  Launcelot, 
my  good  days  are  done.  Fair  damosel,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  of 
these  two  things  ye  must  pardon  me.  Then  she  shrieked  shrilly, 
and  fell  down  in  a  swoon ;  and  then  women  bare  her  into  her 
chamber,  and  there  she  made  over  much  sorrow ;  and  then  Sir 
Launcelot  would  depart,  and  there  he  asked  Sir  Lavaine  what  he 
would  do.  What  should  I  do,  said  Sir  Lavaine,  but  follow  you, 
but  if  ye  drive  me  from  you,  or  command  me  to  go  from  you. 
Then  came  Sir  Bernard  to  Sir  Launcelot  and  said  to  him  :  I 
cannot  see  but  that  my  daughter  Elaine  will  die  for  your  sake. 
I  may  not  do  withal,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  for  that  me  sore  repenteth, 
for  I  report  me  to  yourself,  that  my  proffer  is  fair ;  and  me  re- 
penteth, said  Sir  Launcelot,  that  she  loveth  me  as  she  doth ;  I 
was  never  the  causer  of  it,  for  I  report  me  to  your  son  I  early  ne 
late  proffered  her  bounte  nor  fair  behests  ;  and  as  for  me,  said  Sir 
Launcelot,  I  dare  do  all  that  a  knight  should  do  that  she  is  a 
clene  maiden  for  me,  both  for  deed  and  for  will.  And  I  am  right 
heavy  of  her  distress,  for  she  is  a  full  fair  maiden,  good  and  gentle, 
and  well  taught.  Father,  said  Sir  Lavaine,  I  dare  make  good  she 
is  a  clene  maiden  as  for  my  lord  Sir  Launcelot ;  but  she  doth  as 
I  do,  for  sithen  I  first  saw  my  lord  Sir  Launcelot,  I  could  never 
depart  from  him,  nor  nought  I  will  an  I  may  follow  him.  Then 
Sir  Launcelot  took  his  leave,  and  so  they  departed,  and  came  unto 
Winchester.  And  when  Arthur  wist  that  Sir  Launcelot  was  come 
whole  and  sound  the  king  made  great  joy  of  him,  and  so  did  Sir 
Gawaine  and  all  the  knights  of  the  Round  Table  except  Sir 
Agravaine  and  Sir  Mordred.  Also  Queen  Guenever  was  wood 
wroth  with  Sir  Launcelot,  and  would  by  no  means  speak  with 
him,  but  estranged  herself  from  him ;  and  Sir  Launcelot  made 
all  the  means  that  he  might  for  to  speak  with  the  queen,  but  it 
would  not  be.  Now  speak  we  of  the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat  that 
made  such  sorrow  day  and  night  that  she  never  slept,  ate,  nor 
drank,  and  ever  she  made  her  complaint  unto  Sir  Launcelot. 
So  when  she  had  thus  endured  a  ten  days,  that  she  feebled  so 


50  SIR   THOMAS    MALORY 

that  she  must  needs  pass  out  of  this  world,  then  she  shrived  her 
clene,  and  received  her  Creator.  And  ever  she  complained  still 
upon  Sir  Launcelot.  Then  her  ghostly  father  bad  her  leave 
such  thoughts.  Then  she  said,  why  should  I  leave  such 
thoughts  ?  Am  I  not  an  earthly  woman  ?  And  all  the  while  the 
breath  is  in  my  body  I  may  complain  me,  for  my  belief  is  I  do 
none  offence  though  I  love  an  earthly  man ;  and  I  take  God  to 
my  record  I  loved  never  none  but  Sir  Launcelot  du  Lake,  nor 
never  shall,  and  a  clene  maiden  I  am  for  him  and  for  all  other ; 
and  sithen  it  is  the  sufferance  of  God  that  I  shall  die  for  the  love 
of  so  noble  a  knight,  I  beseech  the  High  Father  of  Heaven  to 
have  mercy  upon  my  soul,  and  upon  mine  innumerable  pains  that 
I  suffered  may  be  allegiance  of  part  of  my  sins.  For  sweet  Lord 
Jesu,  said  the  fair  maiden,  I  take  Thee  to  record,  on  Thee  I  was 
never  great  offencer  against  thy  laws ;  but  that  I  loved  this 
noble  knight,  Sir  Launcelot,  out  of  measure,  and  of  myself,  good 
Lord,  I  might  not  withstand  the  fervent  love  wherefore  I  have 
my  death.  And  then  she  called  her  father.  Sir  Bernard,  and  her 
brother,  Sir  Tirre,  and  heartily  she  prayed  her  father  that  her 
brother  might  write  a  letter  like  as  she  did  indite  it :  and  so  her 
father  granted  her.  And  when  the  letter  was  written  word  by 
word  like  as  she  devised  then  she  prayed  her  father  that  she  might 
be  watched  until  she  were  dead.  And  while  my  body  is  hot  let 
this  letter  be  put  in  my  right  hand,  and  my  hand  bound  fast  with 
the  letter  until  that  I  be  cold ;  and  let  me  be  put  in  a  fair  bed 
with  all  the  richest  clothes  that  I  have  about  me,  and  so  let  my 
bed  and  all  my  richest  clothes  be  laid  with  me  in  a  chariot  unto 
the  next  place  where  Thames  is  ;  and  there  let  me  be  put  within 
a  barget,  and  but  one  man  with  me,  such  as  ye  trust  to  steer  me 
thither,  and  that  my  barget  be  covered  with  black  samite  over 
and  over :  thus  father  I  beseech  you  let  it  be  done.  So  her 
father  granted  it  her  faithfully,  all  things  should  be  done  like  as 
she  had  devised.  Then  her  father  and  her  brother  made  great 
dole,  for  when  this  was  done  anon  she  died.  And  so  when  she 
was  dead  the  corpse  and  the  bed  all  was  led  the  next  way  unto 
Thames,  and  there  a  man,  and  the  corpse,  and  all,  were  put  into 
Thames ;  and  so  the  man  steered  the  barget  unto  Westminster, 
and  there  he  rowed  a  great  while  to  and  fro  or  any  espied  it. 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR 


CHAPTER  XX 


SI 


How  THE  Corpse  of  the  Maid  of  Astolat  arrived  tofore  King 

Arthur,  and  of  the  Burying,  and  how  Sir 

Launcelot  offered  the  Mass-penny 

So  by  fortune  King  Arthur  and  the  Queen  Guenever  were 
speaking  together  at  a  window,  and  so  as  they  looked  into  Thames 
they  espied  this  black  barget,  and  had  marvel  what  it  meant. 
Then  the  king  called  Sir  Kay,  and  showed  it  him.  Sir,  said  Sir 
Kay,  wit  you  well  there  is  some  new  tidings.  Go  thither,  said 
the  king  to  Sir  Kay,  and  take  with  you  Sir  Brandiles  and  Agra- 
vaine,  and  bring  me  ready  word  what  is  there.  Then  these  four 
knights  departed  and  came  to  the  barget  and  went  in ;  and  there 
they  found  the  fairest  corpse  lying  in  a  rich  bed,  and  a  poor  man 
sitting  in  the  barget's  end,  and  no  word  would  he  speak.  So 
these  four  knights  returned  unto  the  king  again,  and  told  him 
what  they  found.  That  fair  corpse  will  I  see,  said  the  king. 
And  so  then  the  king  took  the  queen  by  the  hand,  and  went 
thither.  Then  the  king  made  the  barget  to  be  holden  fast,  and 
then  the  king  and  the  queen  entered  with  certain  knights  with 
them ;  and  there  he  saw  the  fairest  woman  lie  in  a  rich  bed, 
covered  unto  her  middle  with  many  rich  clothes,  and  all  was  of 
cloth  of  gold,  and  she  lay  as  though  she  had  smiled.  Then  the 
queen  espied  a  letter  in  her  right  hand,  and  told  it  to  the  king. 
Then  the  king  took  it  and  said :  Now  am  I  sure  this  letter  will 
tell  what  she  was,  and  why  she  is  come  hither.  So  then  the  king 
and  the  queen  went  out  of  the  barget,  and  so  commanded  a 
certain  man  to  wait  upon  the  barget.  And  so  when  the  king  was 
come  within  his  chamber,  he  called  many  knights  about  him,  and 
said  that  he  would  wit  openly  what  was  written  within  that 
letter.  Then  the  king  brake  it,  and  made  a  clerk  to  read  it, 
and  this  was  the  intent  of  the  letter.  Most  noble  knight,  Sir 
Launcelot,  now  hath  death  made  us  two  at  debate  for  your  love, 
I  was  your  lover,  that  men  called  the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat; 
therefore  unto  all  ladies  I  make  my  moan,  yet  pray  for  my  soul 
and  bury  me  at  least,  and  offer  ye  my  mass-penny :  this  is  my 
last  request.     And  a  clene  maiden  I  died,  I  take  God  to  witness : 


52  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

pray  for  my  soul,  Sir  Launcelot,  as  thou  art  peerless.  This  was 
all  the  substance  in  the  letter.  And  when  it  was  read,  the  king, 
the  queen,  and  all  the  knights  wept  for  pity  of  the  doleful  com- 
plaints. Then  was  Sir  Launcelot  sent  for;  and  when  he  was 
come  King  Arthur  made  the  letter  to  be  read  to  him.  And  when 
Sir  Launcelot  heard  it  word  by  word,  he  said  :  My  lord  Arthur, 
wit  ye  well  I  am  right  heavy  of  the  death  of  this  fair  damosel : 
God  knoweth  I  was  never  causer  of  her  death  by  my  wilHng,  and 
that  will  I  report  me  to  her  own  brother :  here  he  is,  Sir  Lavaine. 
I  will  not  say  nay,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  but  that  she  was  both  fair 
and  good,  and  much  I  was  beholden  unto  her,  but  she  loved  me 
out  of  measure.  Ye  might  have  shewed  her,  said  the  queen, 
some  bounty  and  gentleness  that  might  have  preserved  her  Ufe. 
Madam,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  she  would  none  other  ways  be  an- 
swered but  that  she  would  be  my  wife,  outher  else  my  paramour ; 
and  of  these  two  I  would  not  grant  her,  but  I  proffered  her,  for 
her  good  love  that  she  showed  me,  a  thousand  pound  yearly  to 
her,  and  to  her  heirs,  and  to  wed  any  manner  knight  that  she 
could  find  best  to  love  in  her  heart.  For  madam,  said  Sir  Laun- 
celot, I  love  not  to  be  constrained  to  love ;  for  love  must  arise 
of  the  heart,  and  not  by  no  constraint.  That  is  truth,  said  the 
king,  and  many  knight's  love  is  free  in  himself,  and  never  will  be 
bounden,  for  where  he  is  bounden  he  looseth  himself.  Then  said 
the  king  unto  Sir  Launcelot :  It  will  be  your  worship,  that  ye 
oversee  that  she  be  interred  worshipfully.  Sir,  said  Sir  Launce- 
lot, that  shall  be  done  as  I  can  best  devise.  And  so  many  knights 
yede  thither  to  behold  that  fair  maiden.  And  so  upon  the  morn 
she  was  interred  richly,  and  Sir  Launcelot  offered  her  mass-penny  ; 
and  all  the  knights  of  the  Table  Round  that  were  there  at  that 
time  offered  with  Sir  Launcelot.  And  then  the  poor  man  went 
again  with  the  barget. 


LE    MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  .  53 

BOOK    XXI.     CHAPTER  IV 
How  BY  Misadventure  of  an  Adder  the  Battle  began,  where 

MORDRED   WAS    SLAIN,    AND   ARTHUR   HURT   TO   THE   DeATH 

Then  were  they  condescended  that  King  Arthur  and  Sir 
Mordred  should  meet  betwixt  both  their  hosts,  and  every  each 
of  them  should  bring  fourteen  persons  ;  and  they  came  with  this 
word  unto  Arthur.  Then  said  he  :  I  am  glad  that  this  is  done  : 
and  so  he  went  into  the  field.  And  when  Arthur  should  depart, 
he  warned  all  his  host  that  an  they  see  any  sword  drawn  :  Look  ye 
come  on  fiercely,  and  slay  that  traitor,  Sir  Mordred,  for  I  in  no 
wise  trust  him.  In  likewise  Sir  Mordred  warned  his  host  that : 
An  ye  see  any  sword  drawn,  look  that  ye  come  on  fiercely,  and 
so  slay  all  that  ever  before  you  standeth ;  for  in  no  wise  I  will 
not  trust  for  this  treaty,  for  I  know  well  my  father  will  be  avenged 
on  me.  And  so  they  met  as  their  appointment  was,  and  so  they 
were  agreed  and  accorded  thoroughly ;  and  wine  was  fetched, 
and  they  drank.  Right  soon  came  an  adder  out  of  a  little  heath 
bush,  and  it  stung  a  knight  on  the  foot.  And  when  the  knight 
felt  him  stung,  he  looked  down  and  saw  the  adder,  and  then  he 
drew  his  sword  to  slay  the  adder,  and  thought  of  none  other 
harm.  And  when  the  host  on  both  parties  saw  that  sword  drawn, 
then  they  blew  beamous,  trumpets,  and  horns,  and  shouted 
grimly.  And  so  both  hosts  dressed  them  together.  And  King 
Arthur  took  his  horse,  and  said :  Alas  this  unhappy  day  !  and 
so  rode  to  his  party.  And  Sir  Mordred  in  Hkewise.  And  never 
was  there  seen  a  more  dolefuller  battle  in  no  Christian  land  ;  for 
there  was  but  rushing  and  riding,  foining  and  striking,  and  many 
a  grim  word  was  there  spoken  either  to  other,  and  many  a  deadly 
stroke.  But  ever  King  Arthur  rode  throughout  the  battle  of 
Sir  Mordred  many  times,  and  did  full  nobly  as  a  noble  king 
should,  and  at  all  times  he  fainted  never ;  and  Sir  Mordred  that 
day  put  him  in  devoir,  and  in  great  peril.  And  thus  they  fought 
all  the  long  day,  and  never  stinted  till  the  noble  knights  were 
laid  to  the  cold  earth  ;  and  ever  they  fought  still  till  it  was  near 
night,  and  by  that  time  was  there  an  hundred  thousand  laid  dead 
upon  the  down.     Then  was  Arthur  wood  wroth  out  of  measure, 


54 


SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 


when  he  saw  his  people  so  slain  from  him.     Then  the  king  looked 
about  him,  and  then  was  he  ware,  of  all  his  host  and  of  all  his 
good  knights,  were  left  no  more  on  live  but  two  knights ;  that  one 
was  Sir  Lucan  the  Butler,  and  his  brother  Sir  Bedivere,  and  they 
were  full  sore  wounded.     Jesu  mercy,  said  the  king,  where  are 
all  my  noble  knights  become  ?     Alas  that  ever  I  should  see  this 
doleful  day,  for  now,  said  Arthur,  I  am  come  to  mine  end.     But 
would  to  God  that  I  wist  where  were  that  traitor  Sir  Mordred, 
that  hath  caused  all  this  mischief.     Then  was  King  Arthur  ware 
where  Sir  Mordred  leaned  upon  his  sword  among  a  great  heap  of 
dead  men.     Now  give  me  my  spear,  said  Arthur  unto  Sir  Lucan, 
for  yonder  I  have  espied  the  traitor  that  all  this  woe  hath  wrought. 
Sir,  let  him  be,  said  Sir  Lucan,  for  he  is  unhappy ;  and  if  ye  pass 
this  unhappy  day  ye  shall  be  right  well  revenged  upon  him. 
Good  lord,  remember  ye  of  your  night's  dream,  and  what  the 
spirit  of  Sir  Gawaine  told  you  this  night,  yet  God  of  his  great 
goodness  hath  preserved  you  hitherto.     Therefore,  for  God's 
sake,  my  lord,  leave  off  by  this,  for  blessed  be  God  ye  have  won 
the  field,  for  here  we  be  three  on  Hve,  and  with  Sir  Mordred  is 
none  on  live ;  and  if  ye  leave  off  now  this  wicked  day  of  destiny 
is  past.     Tide  me  death,  betide  me  life,  saith  the  king,  now  I  see 
him  yonder  alone  he  shall  never  escape  mine  hands,  for  at  a  better 
avail  shall  I  never  have  him.     God  speed  you  well,  said  Sir 
Bedivere.     Then  the  king  gat  his  spear  in  both  his  hands,  and 
ran  toward  Sir  Mordred,  crying :  Traitor,  now  is  thy  death  day 
come.     And  when  Sir  Mordred  heard  Sir  Arthur,  he  ran  until 
him  with  his  sword  drawn  in  his  hand.     And  there  King  Arthur 
smote  Sir  Mordred  under  the  shield,  with  a  foin  of  his  spear, 
throughout  the  body,   more   than  a  fathom.     And  when  Sir 
Mordred  felt  that  he  had  his  death  wound  he  thrust  himself 
with  the  might  that  he  had  up  to  the  bur  of  King  Arthur's  spear. 
And  right  so  he  smote  his  father  Arthur,  with  his  sword  holden 
in  both  his  hands,  on  the  side  of  the  head,  that  the  sword  pierced 
the  helmet  and  the  brain  pan,  and  therewithal  Sir  Mordred  fell 
stark  dead  to  the  earth  ;  and  the  noble  Arthur  fell  in  a  swoon  to 
the  earth,  and  there  he  swooned  ofttimes.     And  Sir  Lucan  the 
Butler  and  Sir  Bedivere  ofttimes  heave  him  up.     And  so  weakly 
they  led  him  betwixt  them  both,  to  a  little  chapel  not  far  from  the 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR 


55 


seaside.  And  when  the  king  was  there  he  thought  him  well 
eased.  Then  heard  they  people  cry  in  the  field.  Now  go  thou, 
Sir  Lucan,  said  the  king,  and  do  me  to  wit  what  betokens  that 
noise  in  the  field.  So  Sir  Lucan  departed,  for  he  was  grievously 
wounded  in  many  places.  And  so  as  he  yede,  he  saw  and  heark- 
ened by  the  moonlight,  how  that  pillers  and  robbers  were  come 
into  the  field,  to  pill  and  to  rob  many  a  full  noble  knight  of 
brooches,  and  beads,  of  many  a  good  ring,  and  of  many  a  rich 
jewel ;  and  who  that  were  not  dead  all  out,  there  they  slew  them 
for  their  harness  and  their  riches.  When  Sir  Lucan  understood 
this  work,  he  came  to  the  king  as  soon  as  he  might,  and  told  him 
all  what  he  had  heard  and  seen.  Therefore  by  my  rede,  said  Sir 
Lucan,  it  is  best  that  we  bring  you  to  some  town.  I  would  it 
were  so,  said  the  king. 

CHAPTER  V 

How  King  Arthur  commanded  to  cast  his   Sword  Excalibur 

INTO  THE  Water,  and  how  he  was  delivered  to 

Ladies  in  a  Barge 

But  I  may  not  stand,  mine  head  works  so.  Ah  Sir  Launcelot, 
said  King  Arthur,  this  day  have  I  sore  missed  thee :  alas,  that 
ever  I  was  against  thee,  for  now  have  I  my  death,  whereof  Sir 
Gawaine  me  warned  in  my  dream.  Then  Sir  Lucan  took  up 
the  king  the  one  part,  and  Sir  Bedivere  the  other  part,  and  in  the 
lifting  the  king  swooned  ;  and  Sir  Lucan  fell  in  a  swoon  with  the 
lift,  that  the  part  of  his  guts  fell  out  of  his  body,  and  therewith 
the  noble  knight's  heart  brast.  And  when  the  king  awoke,  he 
beheld  Sir  Lucan,  how  he  lay  foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  part  of 
his  guts  lay  at  his  feet.  Alas,  said  the  king,  this  is  to  me  a  full 
heavy  sight,  to  see  this  noble  duke  so  die  for  my  sake,  for  he  would 
have  holpen  me,  that  had  more  need  of  help  than  I.  Alas,  he 
would  not  complain  him,  his  heart  was  so  set  to  help  me :  now 
Jesu  have  mercy  upon  his  soul  !  Then  Sir  Bedivere  wept  for 
the  death  of  his  brother.  Leave  this  mourning  and  weeping, 
said  the  king,  for  all  this  will  not  avail  me,  for  wit  thou  well  an 
I  might  live  myself,  the  death  of  Sir  Lucan  would  grieve  me  ever- 


56  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

more ;  but  my  time  hieth  fast,  said  the  king.  Therefore,  said 
Arthur  unto  Sir  Bedivere,  take  thou  Excalibur,  my  good  sword, 
and  go  with  it  to  yonder  water  side,  and  when  thou  comest  there 
I  charge  thee  throw  my  sword  in  that  water,  and  come  again  and 
tell  me  what  thou  there  seest.  My  lord,  said  Bedivere,  your 
commandment  shall  be  done,  and  Hghtly  bring  you  word  again. 
So  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  by  the  way  he  beheld  that  noble 
sword,  that  the  pommel  and  the  haft  was  all  of  precious  stones ; 
and  then  he  said  to  himself :  If  I  throw  this  rich  sword  in  the 
water,  thereof  shall  never  come  good,  but  harm  and  loss.  And 
then  Sir  Bedivere  hid  ExcaUbur  under  a  tree.  And  so,  as  soon 
as  he  might,  he  came  again  unto  the  king,  and  said  he  had  been 
at  the  water,  and  had  thrown  the  sword  in  the  water.  What 
saw  thou  there  ?  said  the  king.  Sir,  he  said,  I  saw  nothing  but 
waves  and  winds.  That  is  untruly  said  of  thee,  said  the  king, 
therefore  go  thou  lightly  again,  and  do  my  commandment ; 
as  thou  art  to  me  lief  and  dear,  spare  not,  but  throw  it  in.  Then 
Sir  Bedivere  returned  again,  and  took  the  sword  in  his  hand  ;  and 
then  him  thought  sin  and  shame  to  throw  away  that  noble  sword, 
and  so  efte  he  hid  the  sword,  and  returned  again,  and  told  to  the 
king  that  he  had  been  at  the  water,  and  done  his  commandment. 
What  saw  thou  there  ?  said  the  king.  Sir,  he  said,  I  saw  nothing 
but  the  waters  wappe  and  waves  wanne.  Ah,  traitor  untrue, 
said  King  Arthur,  now  hast  thou  betrayed  me  twice.  Who 
would  have  weened  that,  thou  that  hast  been  to  me  so  lief  and 
dear  ?  and  thou  art  named  a  noble  knight,  and  would  betray  me 
for  the  richness  of  the  sword.  But  now  go  again  lightly,  for  thy 
long  tarrying  putteth  me  in  great  jeopardy  of  my  hfe,  for  I  have 
taken  cold.  And  but  if  thou  do  now  as  I  bid  thee,  if  ever  I  may 
see  thee,  I  shall  slay  thee  with  mine  own  hands  ;  for  thou  wouldst 
for  my  rich  sword  see  me  dead.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  departed, 
and  went  to  the  sword,  and  lightly  took  it  up,  and  went  to  the 
water  side  ;  and  there  he  bound  the  girdle  about  the  hilts,  and 
then  he  threw  the  sword  as  far  into  the  water,  as  he  might ;  and 
there  came  an  arm  and  an  hand  above  the  water  and  met  it,  and 
caught  it,  and  so  shook  it  thrice  and  brandished,  and  then  van- 
ished away  the  hand  with  the  sword  in  the  water.  So  Sir  Bedi- 
vere came  again  to  the  king,  and  told  him  what  he  saw.    Alas, 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR  57 

said  the  king,  help  me  hence,  for  I  dread  me  I  have  tarried  over 
long.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  took  the  king  upon  his  back,  and  so 
went  with  him  to  that  water  side.  And  when  they  were  at  the 
water  side,  even  fast  by  the  bank  hoved  a  Httle  barge  with  many 
fair  ladies  in  it,  and  among  them  all  was  a  queen,  and  all  they  had 
black  hoods,  and  all  they  wept  and  shrieked  when  they  saw  King 
Arthur.  Now  put  me  into  the  barge,  said  the  king.  And  so  he 
did  softly ;  and  there  received  him  three  queens  with  great 
mourning ;  and  so  they  set  them  down,  and  in  one  of  their  laps 
King  Arthur  laid  his  head.  And  then  that  queen  said :  Ah, 
dear  brother,  why  have  ye  tarried  so  long  from  me  ?  alas,  this 
wound  on  your  head  hath  caught  over-much  cold.  And  so  then 
they  rowed  from  the  land,  and  Sir  Bedivere  beheld  all  those  ladies 
go  from  him.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  cried :  Ah  my  lord  Arthur, 
what  shall  become  of  me,  now  ye  go  from  me  and  leave  me  here 
alone  among  mine  enemies  ?  Comfort  thyself,  said  the  king, 
and  do  as  well  as  thou  mayest,  for  in  me  is  no  trust  for  to  trust 
in ;  for  I  will  into  the  vale  of  Avihon  to  heal  me  of  my  grievous 
wound :  and  if  thou  hear  never  more  of  me,  pray  for  my  soul. 
But  ever  the  queens  and  ladies  wept  and  shrieked,  that  it  was 
pity  to  hear.  And  as  soon  as  Sir  Bedivere  had  lost  the  sight  of 
the  barge,  he  wept  and  wailed,  and  so  took  the  forest ;  and  so  he 
went  all  that  night,  and  in  the  morning  he  was  ware  betwixt 
two  holts  hoar,  of  a  chapel  and  an  hermitage. 


CHAPTER  VI 

How  Sir  Bedivere  found  him  on  the  Morrow  Dead  in  an  Her- 
mitage, AND  how  he  abode  THERE  WITH  THE  HeRMIT 

Then  was  Sir  Bedivere  glad,  and  thither  he  went ;  and  when  he 
came  into  the  chapel,  he  saw  where  lay  an  hermit  grovelling  on 
all  four,  there  fast  by  a  tomb  was  new  graven.  When  the  hermit 
saw  Sir  Bedivere  he  knew  him  well,  for  he  was  but  little  tofore 
Bishop  of  Canterbury,  that  Sir  Mordred  flemed.  Sir,  said  Bedi- 
vere, what  man  is  there  interred  that  ye  pray  so  fast  for  ?  Fair 
son,  said  the  hermit,  I  wot  not  verily,  but  by  deeming.     But  this 


58  SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

night,  at  midnight,  here  came  a  number  of  ladies,  and  brought 
hither  a  dead  corpse,  and  prayed  me  to  bury  him  ;  and  here  they 
offered  an  hundred  tapers,  and  they  gave  me  an  hundred  besants. 
Alas,  said  Sir  Bedivere,  that  was  my  lord  King  Arthur,  that  here 
lieth  buried  in  this  chapel.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  swooned ;  and 
when  he  awoke  he  prayed  the  hermit  he  might  abide  with  him 
still  there,  to  live  with  fasting  and  prayers.  For  from  hence  will 
I  never  go,  said  Sir  Bedivere,  by  my  will,  but  all  the  days  of  my 
life  here  to  pray  for  my  lord  Arthur.  Ye  are  welcome  to  me,  said 
the  hermit,  for  I  know  ye  better  than  ye  ween  that  I  do.  Ye 
are  the  bold  Bedivere,  and  the  full  noble  duke,  Sir  Lucan  the 
Butler,  was  your  brother.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  told  the  hermit 
all  as  ye  have  heard  tofore.  So  there  bode  Sir  Bedivere  with  the 
hermit  that  was  tofore  Bishop  of  Canterbury,  and  there  Sir  Bedi- 
vere put  upon  him  poor  clothes,  and  served  the  hermit  full  lowly 
in  fasting  and  in  prayers.  Thus  of  Arthur  I  find  never  more 
written  in  books  that  be  authorised,  nor  more  of  the  very  cer- 
tainty of  his  death  heard  I  never  read,  but  thus  was  he  led  away 
in  a  ship  wherein  were  three  queens ;  that  one  was  King  Arthur's 
sister.  Queen  Morgan  le  Fay  ;  the  other  was  the  Queen  of  North- 
gaHs  ;  the  third  was  the  Queen  of  the  Waste  Lands.  Also  there 
was  Nimue,  the  chief  lady  of  the  lake,  that  had  wedded  Pelleas 
the  good  knight ;  and  this  lady  had  done  much  for  King  Arthur, 
for  she  would  never  suffer  Sir  Pelleas  to  be  in  no  place  where  he 
should  be  in  danger  of  his  Hfe ;  and  so  he  hved  to  the  uttermost 
of  his  days  with  her  in  great  rest.  More  of  the  death  of  King 
Arthur  could  I  never  find,  but  that  ladies  brought  him  to  his 
burials;  and  such  one  was  buried  there,  that  the  hermit  bare 
witness  that  sometime  was  Bishop  of  Canterbury,  but  yet  the 
hermit  knew  not  in  certain  that  he  was  verily  the  body  of  King 
Arthur :  for  this  tale  Sir  Bedivere,  knight  of  the  Table  Round, 
made  it  to  be  written. 


LE   MORTE   D 'ARTHUR 


CHAPTER   VII 


59 


Of  the  Opinion  of  some  Men  of  the  Death  of  King  Arthur; 
AND  HOW  Queen  Guenever  made  her  a  Nun  in  Almesbury 

Yet  some  men  say  in  many  parts  of  England  that  King  Arthur 
is  not  dead,  but  had  by  the  will  of  our  Lord  Jesu  into  another 
place ;  and  men  say  that  he  shall  come  again,  and  he  shall  win 
the  holy  cross.  I  will  not  say  it  shall  be  so,  but  rather  I  will  say, 
here  in  this  world  he  changed  his  life.  But  many  men  say  that 
there  is  written  upon  his  tomb  this  verse :  l^ic  jaC0t  0ttt)UtUfi! 
Me jt:,  quonDam  UtX  ({nt  futurus;.  Thus  leave  I  here  Sir  Bedivere 
with  the  hermit,  that  dwelled  that  time  in  a  chapel  beside  Glas- 
tonbury, and  there  was  his  hermitage.  And  so  they  lived  in 
their  prayers,  and  fastings,  and  great  abstinence.  And  when 
Queen  Guenever  understood  that  King  Arthur  was  slain,  and  all 
the  noble  knights,  Sir  Mordred  and  all  the  remnant,  then  the 
queen  stole  away,  and  five  ladies  with  her,  and  so  she  went  to 
Almesbury  ;  and  there  she  let  make  herself  a  nun,  and  ware  white 
clothes  and  black,  and  great  penance  she  took,  as  ever  did  sinful 
lady  in  this  land,  and  never  creature  could  make  her  merry ;  but 
lived  in  fasting,  prayers,  and  alms-deeds,  that  all  manner  of 
people  marvelled  how  virtuously  she  was  changed.  Now  leave 
we  Queen  Guenever  in  Almesbury,  a  nun  in  white  clothes  and 
black,  and  there  she  was  abbess  and  ruler  as  reason  would. 


EVPHVES 

The  Anatomy  of  Wit 

JOHN  LYLY 

There  dwelt  in  A  thens  a  young  gentleman  of  great  patrimony, 
and  of  fo  comelye  a  perfonage,  that  it  was  doubted  whether  he 
were  more  bound  to  Nature  for  the  liniaments  of  his  perfon,  or  to 
Fortune  for  the  increafe  of  his  poffeffions.  But  Nature  impa- 
tient of  comparifons,  and  as  it  were  difdaining  a  companion  or 
copartner  in  hir  working,  added  to  this  comelyneffe  of  his  bodye 
fuch  a  fharpe  capacity  of  minde,  that  not  onely  fhe  proued  For- 
tune counterfaite,  but  was  halfe  of  that  opinion  that  fhe  hir  felfe 
was  onely  currant.  This  young  gallaunt  of  more  witte  then 
wealth,  and  yet  of  more  wealth  then  wifedome,  feeing  himfelfe 
inferiour  to  none  in  pleafant  conceits,  though  himfelfe  fuperiour 
to  all  his  [in]  honeft  conditions,  infomuch  that  he  thought  him- 
felfe fo  apt  to  all  thinges  that  he  gaue  himfelfe  almof t  to  nothing 
but  practifing  of  thofe  thinges  commonly  which  are  indicent 
[incident]  to  thefe  fharpe  wittes,  fine  phrafes,  fmooth  quippes, 
merry  tauntes,  [vfing]  ief tinge  without  meane,  and  abufing  mirth 
without  meafure.  As  therefore  the  fweeteft  Rofe  hath  his 
prickell,  the  fineft  veluet  his  bracke,  the  fairef t  flower  his  branne, 
fo  the  fharpeft  wit  hath  his  wanton  will,  and  the  holieft  head  his 
wicked  way.  And  true  it  is  that  fome  men  write  and  moft  men 
beleeue,  that  in  al  perfect  fhapes,  a  blemmifh  bringeth  rather  a 
lyking  euery  way  to  the  eyes,  then  a  loathing  any  way  to  the 
minde.  Venus  had  hir  Mole  in  hir  cheeke  which  made  hir  more 
amiable :  Helen  hir  Scarre  in  hir  chinne,  which  Paris  called  Cos 
Amoris,  the  whetftone  of  loue,  Ariftippus  his  Wart,  Lycurgus  his 
Wen :   So  likewife  in  the  difpofition  of  the  minde,  either  vertue 

6q 


EVPHVES  6 I 

is  ouerfhadowed  with  fome  vice,  or  vice  ouercaft  with  fome 
vertue.  Alexander  valyant  in  warre,  yet  giuen  to  wine.  Tullie 
eloquent  in  his  gloles,  yet  vaineglorious.  Salomon  wife,  yet  to[o] 
too  wanton.  Dauid  holy,  but  yet  an  homicide.  None  more 
wittie  then  Euphues,  yet  at  the  firft  none  more  wicked.  The 
frefheft  colours  fooneft  fade,  the  teeneft  Rafor  fooneft  tourneth 
his  edge,  the  fineft  cloth  is  fooneft  eaten  with  [the]  Moathes, 
and  the  Cambricke  fooner  ftayned  then  the  courfe  Canuas : 
which  appeared  well  in  this  Euphues,  whofe  wit  beeing  like  waxe, 
apt  to  receiue  any  impreffion,  and  bearing  the  head  in  his  owne 
hande,  either  to  vfe  the  rayne  or  the  fpurre,  difdayning  counfaile, 
leaning  his  country,  loathinge  his  olde  acquaintance,  thought 
either  by  wit  to  obteyne  fome  conqueft,  or  by  fhame  to  abyde 
fome  conflict,  who  preferring  fancy  before  friends,  and  [t]his 
prefent  humor,  before  honour  to  come,  laid  reafon  in  water  being 
to[o]  fait  for  his  taft,  and  followed  vnbrideled  affection,  moft 
pleafant  for  his  tooth.  ...  It  happened  this  young  Impe  to  ariue 
at  Naples  (a  place  of  more  pleafure  then  profit,  and  yet  of  more 
profit  then  pietie),  the  very  walls  and  windowes  whereoff,  f hewed 
it  rather  to  be  the  Tabernacle  of  Venus,  then  the  Temple  of 
Vefta.  Ther  was  all  things  neceffary  and  in  redynes,  that  might 
either  allure  the  mind  to  luf t  or  entice  ye  heart  to  folly :  a  court 
more  meete  for  an  Atheyft,  then  for  one  of  Athens:  for  Ouid,  then 
for  Arijtotle:  for  a  graceleffe  louer,  then  for  a  godly  liuer  :  more 
fitter  for  Paris  then  Hector,  and  meeter  for  Flora  then  Diana. 
Heere  my  youth  (whether  for  wearineffe  he  could  not,  or  for 
wantonnes  would  not  go  any  farther)  determined  to  make  his 
abode,  whereby  it  is  euidently  f  eene  that  the  fleetef  t  fifh  f walloweth 
the  delicatef t  bait :  that  the  highef  t  f oaring  Hauke  traineth  to 
ye  lure  :  and  that  ye  wittieft  braine,  is  inuegled  with  the  fodeine 
view  of  alluring  vanities.  Heere  he  wanted  no  companyons, 
which  courted  him  continually  with  fundrye  kindes  of  deuifes, 
whereby  they  might  either  foake  his  purffe  to  reape  commoditie, 
or  footh  his  perfon,  to  winne  credite:  for  he  had  gueftes  and 
companions  of  all  forts. 

Ther  frequented  to  his  lodging,  as  well  the  Spider  to  fucke 
poyfon  of  his  fine  wit,  as  the  Bee  to  gather  Hunny :  as  well  the 
Drone  as  the  Done :   the  Foxe  as  the  Lambe :  as  wel  Damocles 


62  JOHN   LYLY 

to  betray  him,  as  Damon  to  be  true  to  him.     Yet  he  behaued 
himfelfe  fo  warily,  that  hee  fingled  his  game  wifelye. 


Euphues  having  foiourned  by  the  fpace  of  two  monethes  in 
Naples,  whether  he  were  moued  by  the  courtefie  of  a  young 
gentleman  named  Phila[u]tus,  or  inforced  by  deftany :  whether 
his  pregna[n]t  wit,  or  his  pleafant  conceits  wrought  the  greater 
lyking  in  [of]  the  minde  of  Euphues,  I  know  not  for  certeintie : 
But  Euphues  fhewed  fuch  entyre  loue  towards  him,  that  he 
feemed  to  make  Imall  accompt  of  any  others,  determining  to 
enter  into  fuch  an  inuiolable  league  of  friendfhip  with  him,  as 
neither  time  by  peecemeale  fhould  impaire,  neither  fancie  vtterly 
defolue,  nor  any  fufpition  infringe. 


Euphues  had  continual  acceffe  to  the  place  of  Philautus,  and 
no  little  famiUaritie  with  him,  and  finding  him  at  conuenient 
leafure,  in  thefe  fhort  termes  vnfolded  his  minde  vnto  [to]  him. 

Gentleman  and  friend,  the  tryall  I  haue  had  of  thy  manners 
cutteth  ofi  diuers  termes,  which  to  an  other  I  wold  haue  vfed  in 
the  lyke  matter.  And  fithens  a  long  discourfe  argueth  folly, 
and  dehcate  words  incurre  the  fufpition  of  flattery,  I  am  deter- 
mined to  vfe  neither  of  them,  knowing  either  of  them  to  breede 
offence.  Wayinge  with  my  felfe  the  force  of  friendfhippe  by  the 
effects,  I  ftudyed  euer  fince  my  firft  comming  to  Naples  to  enter 
league  with  fuch  a  one  as  might  direct  my  f teps  being  a  f tranger, 
and  refemble  my  manners  being  a  fcholler,  the  which  two  quah- 
ties  as  I  find  in  you  able  to  fatiffie  my  defire,  fo  I  hope  I  fhall 
iinde  a  heart  in  you  willinge  to  accomplifh  my  requeft.  Which 
if  I  may  obteine,  affure  your  felfe,  that  Damon  to  his  Pythias, 
Pilades  to  his  Oreftes,  Tytus  to  his  Gyfippus,  Thefius  to  his 
Pirothus,  Scipio  to  his  Lcclius,  was  neuer  founde  more  faithfull, 
then  Euphues  will  bee  to  Philautus. 

Philautus  by  how  much  the  leffe  he  looked  for  this  difcourfe, 
by  fo  much  the  more  he  lyked  it,  for  he  fawe  all  quahties  both  of 
body  and  minde,  in  Euphues,  vnto  whom  he  replyed  as  followeth. 

Friend  Euphues  (for  fo  your  talke  warranteth  me  to  term  you) 


EVPHVES  ($3 

I  dare  neither  vie  a  long  proceffe,  neither  a  louing  fpeach,  lealt 
vnwittingly  I  fhold  caufe  you  to  conuince  me  of  thofe  things 
which  you  haue  already  condemned.  And  verily  I  am  bold  to 
prefume  vpon  your  curtelie,  fince  you  your  felf  haue  vied  fo  little 
curiofitie:  perfwading  my  felfe  that  my  fhort  anfwere  will 
worke  as  great  an  effect  in  you,  as  your  few  words  did  in  me. 
And  feeing  we  referable  (as  you  fay)  each  other  in  quahties, 
it  cannot  be  yat  the  one  should  differ  from  the  other  in  curtefie, 
feeing  the  fincere  affection  of  the  minde  cannot  be  expreffed 
by  the  mouth,  and  that  no  art  can  vnfold  the  entire  loue  of 
ye  heart,  I  am  earneftly  to  befeech  you  not  to  meafure  the 
firmeneffe  of  my  faith,  by  ye  fewnes  of  my  wordes,  but 
rather  thinke  that  the  ouerflowing  wanes  of  good  wil,  leaue  no 
paffage  for  many  words. 


But  after  many  erabracings  and  proteftations  one  to  an  other, 
they  walked  to  dinner,  wher  they  wanted  neither  meat,  neither 
Muficke,  neither  any  other  paftime :  and  hauing  banqueted,  to 
digeft  their  fweete  confections,  they  daunced  all  that  after 
noone,  they  vfed  not  onely  one  boorde  but  one  bed,  one  booke  (if 
fo  be  it  they  thought  not  one  too  many).  Their  friendfhip 
augmented  euery  day,  infomuch  that  the  one  could  not  refraine 
the  company  of  the  other  one  minute,  all  things  went  in  common 
betweene  them,  which  all  men  accompted  commendable. 

Phila[u]tus  being  a  towne  borne  childe,  both  for  his  owne 
countenaunce,  and  the  great  countenaunce  which  his  father  had 
while  he  lined,  crept  into  credit  with  Don  Ferardo  one  of  the 
chiefe  gouernours  of  the  citie,  who  although  he  had  a  courtly 
crew  of  gentlewomen  foiourning  in  his  pallaice,  yet  his  daughter, 
heire  to  his  whole  reuenewes  ftayned  ye  beau  tie  of  them  al,  whofe 
modeft  bafhfulnes  caufed  the  other  to  looke  wanne  for  enuie, 
whofe  Lilly  cheekes  dyed  with  a  VermiUon  red,  made  the  reft 
to  blufh  for  fhame.  For  as  the  fineft  Ruby  ftaineth  ye  coulour 
of  the  reft  that  be  in  place,  or  as  the  Sunne  dimraeth  the  Moone, 
that  fhe  cannot  be  difcerned,  fo  this  gallant  girle  more  faire  then 
fortunate,  and  yet  more  fortunate  then  faithful,  eclipfed  the 
beautie  of  them  all,  and  chaunged  their  colours.     Vnto  hir  had 


64  JOHN   LYLY 

Philautus  acceffe,  who  wan  hir  by  right  of  loue,  and  fhould  haue 
worne  hir  by  right  of  law,  had  not  Euphues  by  ftraunge  deftenie 
broken  the  bondes  of  mariage,  and  forbidden  the  banes  of 
Matrimony. 

It  happened  that  Don  Ferardo  had  occalion  to  goe  to  Venice 
about  certeine  [of]  his  owne  affaires,  leaning  his  daughter  the 
onely  fteward  of  his  houfehold,  who  fpared  not  to  feaft  Philautus 
hir  friend,  with  al  kinds  of  delights  and  delycates,  referuing  only 
hir  honeftie  as  the  chiefe  ftay  of  hir  honour.  Hir  father  being 
gone  fhe  fent  for  hir  friend  to  fupper,  who  came  not  as  hee  was 
accuftomed  folitarilye  alone,  but  accompanyed  with  his  friend 
Euphues.  The  Gentlewoman  whether  it  were  for  niceneffe,  or 
for  nigardneffe  of  courtefie,  gaue  him  fuch  a  colde  welcome,  that 
he  repented  that  he  was  come. 

Euphues  though  he  knewe  himfelfe  worthy  euerye  way  to  haue 
a  good  countenaunce,  yet  coulde  he  not  perceiue  hir  willing  any 
way  to  lende  him  a  friendly  looke.  Yet  leaft  he  fhould  feeme  to 
want  geftures,  or  to  be  dafhed  out  of  conceipt  with  hir  coy 
countenaunce,  he  addreffed  him  to  a  Gentlewoman  called  Liuia, 
vnto  whome  he  vttered  this  fpeach.  Faire  Ladye,  if  it  be  the 
guife  of  Italy  to  welcome  f traungers  with  f trangnes,  I  muf t  needes 
fay  the  cuftome  is  ftrange  and  the  countrey  barbarous,  if  the 
manner  of  Ladies  to  falute  Gentlemen  with  coyneffe,  then  I  am 
enforced  to  think  the  women  without  [voyde  of]  courtefie  to  vfe 
fuch  welcome,  and  the  men  paft  fhame  that  will  come.  But 
heereafter  I  will  either  bring  a  ftoole  on  mine  arme  for  an  vn- 
bidden  gueft,  or  a  vifard  on  my  face,  for  a  fhameleffe  goffippe. 
Liuia  replyed. 

Sir,  our  country  is  ciuile,  and  our  gentlewomen  are  curteous, 
but  in  Naples  it  is  compted  a  ieft,  at  euery  word  to  fay,  In  faith 
you  are  welcome.  As  fhe  was  yet  talking,  fupper  was  fet  on 
the  bord,  then  Philautus  fpake  thus  vnto  Lucilla.  Yet  Gentle- 
woman, I  was  the  bolder  to  bring  my  fhadow  with  me,  (meaning 
Euphues)  knowing  that  he  should  be  the  better  welcome  for  my 
fake :  vnto  whom  the  Gentlewoman  replyed.  Sir,  as  I  neuer 
when  I  faw  you,  thought  that  you  came  without  your  fhadow, 
fo  now  I  cannot  lyttle  mcruaile  to  fee  you  fo  ouerfhot  in  bringing 
a  new  fhadow  with  you.     Euphues,  though  he  perceiued  hir  coy 


EVPHVES  65 

nippe,  feemed  not  to  care  for  it,  but  taking  hir  by  the  hand 
laid. 

Faire  Lady,  feeing  the  fhade  doth  [fo]  often  fhield  your  beautie 
from  the  parching  Sunne,  I  hope  you  will  the  better  efteeme  of 
the  fhadow,  and  by  fo  much  the  leffe  it  ought  to  be  offenfiue, 
by  how  much  the  leffe  it  is  able  to  offende  you,  and  by  fo  much  the 
more  you  ought  to  lyke  it,  by  how  much  the  more  you  vfe  to  lye 
in  it. 

Well  Gentleman,  aunfwered  Lucilla,  in  arguing  of  the  fhadow, 
we  forgoe  the  fubftaunce  :  pleafeth  it  you  therefore  to  fit  downe 
to  fupper.  And  fo  they  all  fate  downe,  but  Euphues  fed  of  one 
difh,  which  [was]  euer  stoode  before  him,  the  beautie  of  Lucilla. 

Supper  beeing  ended,  the  order  was  in  Naples,  that  the  Gentle- 
women would  defire  to  heare  fome  difcourse,  either  concerning 
loue,  or  learning  :  And  although  Philautus  was  requefted,  yet  he 
pof ted  it  ouer  to  Euphues,  whome  he  knewe  moft  fit  for  that  pur- 
pofe :  Euphues  beeing  thus  tyed  to  the  f take  by  their  importu- 
nate intreatie,  began  as  followeth. 

He  that  worft  may  is  alway  enforced  to  holde  the  candell,  the 
weakeft  muft  ftill  to  the  wall,  where  none  will,  the  Diuell  him- 
felfe  muft  beare  the  croffe.  But  were  it  not  Gentlewomen,  that 
your  luft  ftandes  for  law,  I  would  borrow  fo  much  leaue  as  to 
refigne  mine  office  to  one  of  you,  whofe  experience  in  loue  hath 
made  you  learned,  and  whofe  learninge  hath  made  you  fo  louely  : 
for  me  to  intreat  of  the  one  being  a  nouife,  or  to  difcourfe  of  the 
other  being  a  trewant,  I  may  well  make  you  weary,  but  neuer 
the  wifer,  and  giue  you  occafion  rather  to  laugh  at  my  rafhneffe, 
then  to  lyke  my  reafons  :  Yet  I  care  the  leffe  to  excufe  my  bold- 
neffe  to  you,  who  were  the  caufe  of  my  blindneffe.  And  fince  I 
am  at  mine  owne  choyce,  either  to  talke  of  loue  or  of  learning,  I 
had  rather  for  this  time  bee  deemed  an  vnthrift  in  reiecting 
profite,  then  a  Stoicke  in  renouncing  pleafure. 

It  hath  bene  a  queftion  often  difputed,  but  neuer  determined, 
whether  the  quahties  of  the  minde,  or  the  compofition  of  the 
man,  caufe  women  moft  to  lyke,  or  whether  beautie  or  wit  moue 
men  moft  to  loue.  Certes  by  how  much  the  more  the  minde  is  to 
be  preferred  before  the  body,  by  fo  much  the  more  the  graces  of 
the  one  are  to  be  preferred  before  ye  gifts  of  the  other,  which  if 


66  JOHN   LYLY 

it  be  fo,  that  the  contemplation  of  the  inward  qualitie  ought  to 
bee  refpected,  more  then  the  view  of  the  outward  beautie,  then 
doubtleffe  women  either  do  or  fhould  loue  thofe  beft  whofe  ver- 
tue  is  beft,  not  meafuring  the  deformed  man,  with  the  reformed 
minde. 

The  foule  Toade  hath  a  faire  ftone  in  his  head,  the  fine  golde 
is  found  in  the  filthy  earth :  the  fweet  kernell  lyeth  in  the  hard 
fhell :  vertue  is  harboured  in  the  heart  of  him  that  moft  men 
efteeme  mifhapen.  Contrariwife,  if  we  refpect  more  the  out- 
ward fhape,  then  the  inward  habit,  good  God,  into  how  many 
mifchiefs  do  wee  fall  ?  into  what  bUndneffe  are  we  ledde  ?  Doe 
we  not  commonly  fee  that  in  painted  pottes  is  hidden  the  deadlyeft 
poyfon  ?  that  in  the  greeneft  graffe  is  ye  greatef t  Serpent  ?  in  the 
cleeref t  water  the  vglyeft  Toade  ?  Doth  not  experience  teach 
vs,  that  in  the  moft  curious  Sepulcher  are  enclofed  rotten  bones  ? 
That  the  Cypreffe  tree  beareth  a  faire  leaf e,  but  no  fruite  ?  That 
the  Eftridge  carieth  faire  feathers,  but  ranke  flefh  ?  How  fran- 
tick  are  thofe  louers  which  are  caried  away  with  the  gaye  ghfter- 
ing  of  the  fine  face  ?  The  beautie  whereoff  is  parched  with  the 
fummers  blaze,  and  chipped  with  the  winters  blaft :  which  is  of 
fo  fhort  continuance,  that  it  fadeth  before  one  perceiue  it  flourifh  : 
of  fo  fmal  profit,  that  it  poyfoneth  thofe  that  poffeffe  it :  of  fo 
Htle  value  with  the  wife,  that  they  accompt  it  a  dehcate  baite 
with  a  deadly  hooke  :  a  fweet  Panther  with  a  deuouring  paunch, 
a  fower  poyfon  in  a  filuer  potte.  Heere  I  could  enter  into  dif- 
courfe  of  fuch  fine  dames  as  being  in  loue  with  their  owne  lookes, 
make  fuch  courfe  accompt  of  their  paffionate  louers :  for  com- 
monly if  they  be  adorned  with  beautie,  they  be  ftraight  laced, 
and  made  fo  high  in  the  infteppe,  that  they  difdaine  them  moft 
that  moft  dcfire  them.  It  is  a  worlde  to  fee  the  doating  of  their 
louers,  and  their  dealing  with  them,  the  reueling  of  whofe  fubtil 
traines  would  caufe  me  to  fhed  teares,  ai;id  you  Gentlewomen 
to  fhut  your  modeft  eares.  Pardon  me  Gentlewomen  if  I 
vnfolde  euery  wile  and  fhew  euery  wrinkle  of  womcns  difpofi- 
tion.  Two  things  do  they  caufe  their  feruants  to  vow  vnto 
them,  fccrccie,  and  fouereintie :  the  one  to  conceale  their  cn- 
tifing  fleights,  by  the  other  to  affure  themfelues  of  their  only 
feruice.     Againe,  but  hoe  there :   if  I  fhoulde  haue  waded  anye 


EVPHVES 


67 


further,  and  fownded  the  depth  of  their  deceipt,  I  fhould  either 
haue  procured  your  difpleafure,  or  incurred  the  fufpicion  of  fraud  : 
either  armed  you  to  practife  the  hke  fubtiltie,  or  accufed  my 
felfe  of  periury.  But  I  meane  not  to  offend  your  chaft  mindes, 
with  the  rehearfal  of  their  vnchaf t  manners :  whofe  eares  I 
perceiue  to  glow,  and  hearts  to  be  grieued  at  that  which  I  haue 
alredy  vttercd :  not  that  amongft  you  there  be  any  fuch,  but 
that  in  your  fexe  ther  fhould  be  any  fuch.  Let  not  Gentlewomen 
therefore  make  to[o]  much  of  their  painted  fheath,  let  them  not 
be  fo  curious  in  their  owne  conceit,  or  fo  currifh  to  their  loyal 
louers.  When  the  black  Crowes  foote  fhall  appeare  in  their 
eye,  or  the  blacke  Oxe  treade  on  their  foote,  when  their  beautie 
fhall  be  lyke  the  blafted  Rofe,  their  wealth  wafted,  their  bodies 
worne,  their  faces  wrinkled,  their  fingers  crooked,  who  wil  like 
of  them  in  their  age,  who  loued  none  in  their  youth  ?  If  you  will 
be  cherifhed  when  you  be  olde,  be  courteous  while  you  be  young  : 
if  you  looke  for  comfort  in  your  hoarie  haires,  be  not  coye  when 
you  haue  your  golden  lockes :  if  you  would  be  imbraced  in  ye 
wayning  of  your  brauerie,  be  not  fqueymifh  in  the  waxing  of  your 
beautie  :  if  you  defire  to  be  kept  lyke  the  Rofes  when  they  haue 
loft  their  coulour,  fmel  fweete  as  the  Rofe  doth  in  the  budde : 
if  you  woulde  bee  taf ted  for  olde  Wine,  bee  in  the  mouth  a  pleaf- 
aunt  Grape :  fo  fhall  you  be  cherifhed  for  your  courtefie,  com- 
forted for  your  honeftie,  embraced  for  your  amitie,  fo  fhall  you 
[ye]  be  preferued  with  the  fweete  Rofe,  and  dronke  with  the 
pleafant  wine.  Thus  farre  I  am  bolde  gentlewomen,  to  counfel 
those  that  be  coy,  that  they  wcaue  not  the  web  of  their  owne  woe, 
nor  spinne  the  threede  of  their  own  thraldome,  by  their  own 
ouerthwartnes.  And  feeing  we  are  euen  in  the  bowells  of  loue, 
it  fhal  not  be  amiffe,  to  examine  whether  man  or  woman  be  foon- 
eft  allured,  whether  be  moft  conftant  the  male  or  the  female. 
And  in  this  poynte  I  meane  not  to  be  mine  owne  earner,  leaft  I 
fhould  feeme  either  to  picke  a  thanke  with  men,  or  a  quarel  with 
women.  If  therefore  it  might  ftand  with  your  pleafure  (Miftres 
Lucilla)  to  giue  your  cenfure,  I  would  take  the  contrarie :  for 
fure  I  am  though  your  iudgement  be  found,  yet  affection  will 
fhadow  it. 

Lucilla  feeing  his  pretence,  thought  to  take  aduauntage  of  his 


68  JOHN   LYLY 

large  profer,  vnto  whom  fhe  faide.  Gentleman  in  my  opinion, 
women  are  to  be  wonne  with  euery  wind,  in  whole  fexe  ther  is 
neither  force  to  withftand  the  af faults  of  loue,  neither  conftancy 
to  remaine  faithfull.  And  bicaufe  your  difcourfe  hath  hetherto 
bred  delight,  I  am  loth  to  hinder  you  in  the  fequele  of  your 
deuifes.  Euphues,  perceiuing  himfelfe  to  be  taken  napping, 
aunfwered  as  followeth. 

Miftres  Lucilla,  if  you  fpeake  as  you  thinke,  thefe  gentlewomen 
prefent  haue  httle  caufe  to  thanke  you,  if  you  cause  me  to  com- 
mend women,  my  tale  will  be  accompted  a  meere  trifle,  and  your 
wordes  the  plaine  truth  :  Yet  knowing  promif  e  to  be  debt,  I  will 
paye  it  with  performance.  And  I  woulde  the  Gentlemen  heere 
prefent  were  as  ready  to  credit  my  proofe,  as  the  gentlewomen 
are  willing  to  heare  their  own  prayfes,  or  I  as  able  to  ouercome, 
as  Miftres  Lucilla  would  be  content  to  be  ouerthrowne,  howe  fo 
euer  the  matter  fhall  fall  out,  I  am  of  the  furer  fide  :  for  if  my 
reafons  be  weake,  then  is  our  fexe  ftrong :  if  forcible,  then  [is] 
your  iudgement  feeble :  if  I  finde  truth  on  my  fide,  I  hope  I 
fhall  for  my  wages  win  the  good  will  of  women  :  if  I  want  proofe, 
then  gentlewomen  of  neceffitie  you  muft  yeeld  to  men.  But 
to  the  matter. 

Touching  the  yeelding  to  loue,  albeit  their  heartes  feeme 
tender,  yet  they  harden  them  lyke  the  f  tone  of  Sicilia,  the  which 
the  more  it  is  beaten  the  harder  it  is  :  for  being  framed  as  it  were 
of  the  perfection  of  men,  they  be  free  from  all  fuch  cogitations 
as  may  any  way  prouoke  them  to  vncleaneneffe,  infomuch  as 
they  abhorre  the  Ught  loue  of  youth,  which  is  grounded  vppon 
luft,  and  diffolued,  vpon  euery  light  occafion.  When  they  fee 
the  folly  of  men  turne  to  fury,  their  delyght  to  doting,  their 
affection  to  frencie,  when  they  fee  them  as  it  were  pine  in  plea- 
fure,  and  to  wax  pale  through  their  own  peeuifhnes,  their  futes, 
their  feruice,  their  letters,  their  labours,  their  loues,  their  lines, 
feeme  to  them  fo  odyous,  that  they  harden  their  hearts  againft 
fuch  concupyfencc,  to  the  endc  they  might  conuert  them  from 
rafhneffe  to  reafon :  from  fuch  lewde  difpofition,  to  honeft 
difcretion.  Hccrcoff  it  commeth  that  men  accufe  woemen  of 
cruelty,  bicause  they  thcmfclucs  want  ciuility :  they  accompt 
them  full  of  wyles,  in  not  yeelding  to  their  wickednes  :  faithleffe 


EVPHVES  69 

for  refifting  their  filthynes.  But  I  had  almoft  forgot  my  felfe, 
you  fhal  pardon  me  Miftres  Lucilla  for  this  time,  if  this  [thus] 
abruptlye,  I  finifh  my  difcourfe :  it  is  neither  for  want  of  good 
wil,  or  lack  of  proofe,  but  yat  I  feele  in  my  felf  fuch  alteration, 
yat  I  can  scarcely  vtter  one  worde.  Ah  Euphues,  Euphues. 
The  gentlewomen  were  ftrooke  into  fuch  a  quandary  with  this 
fodeine  chaunge,  that  they  all  chaunged  coulour.  But  Euphues 
taking  Philautus  by  the  hande,  and  giuing  the  gentlewomen 
thankes  for  their  patience  and  his  repaft,  bad  them  al  farewell, 
and  went  immediately  to  his  chamber.  But  Lucilla  who  nowe 
began  to  frye  in  the  flames  of  loue,  all  the  companye  being 
departed  to  their  lodgings,  entered  into  thefe  termes  and  con- 
trarieties. 

Ah  wretched  wench  Lucilla,  how  art  thou  perplexed  ?  what  a 
doubtfull  fight  doft  thou  feele  betwixt  [betweene]  faith  and  fancy  ? 
hope  and  feare  ?  confcience  and  concupifcence  ?  O  my  Euphues, 
lyttle  doft  thou  knowe  the  fodeyn  forrowe  that  I  fufteine  for 
thy  fweete  fake :  Whofe  wyt  hath  bewitched  me,  whofe  rare 
qualyties  haue  depryued  me  of  myne  olde  qualytie,  moft  curteous 
behauiour  without  curiofitie,  whofe  comely  feature,  wythout 
fault,  whofe  filed  fpeach  without  fraud,  hath  wrapped  me  in  this 
miffortune.  And  canft  thou  Lucilla  be  fo  fight  of  loue  in  for- 
faking  Philautus  to  flye  to  Euphues?  canft  thou  prefer  a  ftraunger 
before  thy  countryman  ?  a  f tarter  before  thy  companion  ?  Why, 
Euphues  doth  perhappes  [perhappes  doeth]  defire  my  loue,  but 
Philautus  hath  deferued  it.  Why,  Euphues  feature  is  worthy 
as  good  as  I,  but  Philautus  his  faith  is  worthy  a  better.  I,  but 
the  latter  loue  is  moft  feruent,  I,  but  ye  firft  ought  to  be  moft 
faythfull.  I,  but  Euphues  hath  greater  perfection,  I,  but 
Philautus  hath  deeper  affection. 


She  hauing  thus  difcourfed  with  hir  felfe,  hir  owne  miferies, 
oaf t  hir  felfe  on  the  bedde  and  there  lette  hir  lye,  and  retourne  we 
to  Euphues,  who  was  fo  caught  in  the  ginne  of  folly,  that  he 
neither  could  comfort  himfelfe,  nor  durft  afke  counfaile  of  his 
friend,  fufpecting  that  which  in  deede  was  true,  that  Philautus 
was  corriual  with  him  and  cooke-mate  with  Lucilla.      Amiddeft 


70  JOHN  LYLY 

therefore  thefe  his  extremities,  betweene  hope  and  feare,  he 
vttered  thefe  or  the  lyke  fpeaches. 

What  is  he  Eiiphues,  that  knowing  thy  witte,  and  feeing  thy 
folly,  but  will  rather  punifh  thy  leaudneffe,  then  pittie  thy 
heauineffe  ?  Was  ther  euer  any  fo  fickle  fo  foone  to  be  allured  ? 
any  euer  [euer  anie]  fo  faithleffe  to  deceiue  his  friend  ?  euer  any 
fo  foohfh  to  bathe  himfelfe  in  his  owne  mif fortune  ?  Too  true 
it  is,  that  as  the  fea  Crab  fwimmeth  alwayes  againft  the  ftreame, 
fo  wit  alwayes  ftriueth  againft  wifedome :  And  as  the  Bee  is 
oftentimes  hurt  with  hir  owne  Honny,  fo  is  witte  not  feldome 
plagued  with  his  owne  conceipt. 

Shall  I  not  then  hazarde  my  Ufe  to  obteine  my  loue  ?  and  de- 
ceiue Philautus  to  receiue  Lucilla?  Yes  Euphues,  where  loue 
beareth  fway ,  friendf hip  can  haue  no  fhewe  :  As  Philautus  brought 
me  for  his  fhadowe  the  laft  fupper,  fo  will  I  vfe  him  for  my 
fhadow  till  I  haue  gained  his  Saint.  And  canft  thou  wretch  be 
falfe  to  him  that  is  faithful  to  thee  ?  Shall  his  curtefie  bee  caufe  of 
thy  crueltie  ?  Wilt  thou  violate  the  league  of  fayth,  to  enherite 
the  lande  of  folly  ?  Shall  affection  be  of  more  force  then  friend- 
fhip,  loue  then  lawe,  luft  then  loyaltic  ?  Knowef t  thou  not 
that  he  that  lofcth  his  honcftie,  hath  nothing  els  to  loofe. 

Euphues  hauing  thus  talked  with  himfelfe,  Philautus  entered 
the  chamber,  and  finding  him  fo  worne  and  wafted  with  con- 
tinuall  mourning,  neither  ioying  in  hys  meate,  nor  reioycing  in 
his  friend,  with  watry  eyes  vttered  this  fpeach. 

Friend  and  fellow,  as  I  am  not  ignoraunt  of  thy  prcfent  wcake- 
nes,  fo  I  am  not  priuie  of  the  caufe :  and  although  I  fufpect 
many  things,  yet  can  I  affure  my  felf  of  no  one  thing.  Therfore 
my  good  Euphues,  for  thefe  doubts  and  fkimpes  of  mine,  cither 
rcmoue  the  caufe,  or  reucale  it.  Thou  haft  hetherto  founde  mc 
a  cheerefull  companion  in  thy  myrth.  and  nowe  fhalt  thou  finde 
me  as  carofull  with  thee  in  thy  moane.  If  altogether  thou 
maift  not  be  cured,  yet  maift  thou  bee  comforted.  If  ther  be 
any  thing  yat  either  by  my  friends  may  be  procured,  or  by  my 


EVPHVES  71 

life  attained,  that  may  either  heale  thee  in  part,  or  helpe  thee  in 
all,  I  proteft  to  thee  by  the  name  of  a  friend,  that  it  Ihall  rather 
be  gotten  with  the  lofle  of  my  body,  then  loft  by  getting  a  king- 
dome.  Euphues  hearing  this  comfort  and  friendly  counfaile, 
diffembled  his  forrowing  heart  with  a  fmiling  face,  aunfwering 
him  forthwith  as  followeth. 

So  it  is  Philautus  (for  why  fhould  I  conceale  it  from  thee,  of 
whome  I  am  to  take  counfayle)  that  fince  my  laft  and  firft  being 
with  thee  at  the  houfe  of  Ferardo,  I  haue  felt  fuch  a  furious  batt- 
ayle  in  mine  owne  body,  as  if  it  be  not  fpeedely  repreffed  by 
pollicie,  it  wil  cary  my  minde  (the  graund  captaine  in  this  fight) 
into  endleffe  captiuitie.  Ah  Liuia,  Liuia,  thy  courtly  grace 
with  out  coyneffe,  thy  blazing  beautie  without  blemifh,  thy 
curteous  demeanor  without  curiofitie,  thy  fweet  fpeech  fauoured 
with  witte,  thy  comely  mirth  tempered  with  modeftie  ?  thy 
chaf t  lookes,  yet  louely  :  thy  fharp  taunts,  yet  pleafaunt :  haue 
giuen  me  fuch  a  checke,  that  fure  I  am  at  the  next  viewe  of  thy 
vertues,  I  fhall  take  thee  mate.  If  therefore  Philautus,  thou 
canft  fet  but  this  fether  to  mine  arrow,  thou  fhalt  fee  me  fhoote 
fo  neere,  that  thou  wilt  accompt  me  for  a  cunning  Archer.  And 
verily  if  I  had  not  loued  thee  well,  I  would  haue  fwallowed  mine 
own  forrow  in  filence,  knowing  yat  in  loue  nothing  is  fo  daunger- 
ous  as  to  perticipate  the  meanes  thereoff  to  an  other,  and  that 
two  may  keepe  counfaile  if  one  be  away,  I  am  therefore  enforced 
perforce,  to  challenge  that  curtefie  at  thy  hands,  which  earft 
thou  didft  promife  with  thy  heart,  the  performaunce  whereoff  fhall 
binde  me  to  Philautus,  and  prooue  thee  faithfull  to  Euphues. 

Philautus  thinking  al  to  be  gold  that  gliftered,  and  all  to  be 
Gofpell  that  Euphues  vttered,  anfwered  his  forged  gloafe  with 
this  friendly  cloafe. 

In  that  thou  haft  made  me  priuie  to  thy  purpofe,  I  will  not 
conceale  my  practife :  in  yat  thou  crauef t  my  aide,  affure  thy 
felfe  I  will  be  the  finger  next  thy  thombe :  infomuch  as  thou 
fhalt  neuer  repent  thee  of  ye  one  or  the  other,  for  perfwade  thy 
felfe  that  thou  fhalt  finde  Philautus  during  life  ready  to  comfort 
thee  in  thy  miffortunes,  and  fuccour  thee  in  thy  neceffitie. 
Concerning  Liuia,  though  fhe  be  faire,  yet  is  fhe  not  fo  amiable 
as  my  Lucilla,  whofe  feruaunt  I  haue  bene  the  terme  of  three 


72  JOHN   LYLY 

yeres :  but  leaft  comparifons  fhould  feeme  odious,  chief ely 
where  both  the  parties  be  without  comparifon,  I  will  omitte  that, 
and  feing  that  we  had  both  rather  be  talking  with  them,  then 
tathng  of  them,  we  will  immediately  goe  to  them.  And  truly 
Euphues,  I  am  not  a  lyttle  glad,  that  I  fhall  haue  thee  not  only  a 
comfort  in  my  life,  but  alfo  a  companion  in  my  loue :  As  thou 
haft  ben  wife  in  thy  choice,  fo  I  hope  thou  fhalt  be  fortunate  in 
thy  chaunce.  Liuia  is  a  wench  of  more  wit  then  beautie,  Lucilla 
of  more  beautie  then  wit,  both  of  more  honeftie  then  honour, 
and  yet  both  of  fuch  honour,  as  in  all  Naples  there  is  not  one  in 
birth  to  be  compared  with  any  of  them  both.  How  much 
therefore  haue  wee  to  reioyce  in  our  choice.  Touching  our 
acceffe,  be  thou  fecure,  I  will  fiappe  Ferardo  in  the  mouth  with 
fome  conceipt,  and  fil  his  olde  head  fo  full  of  new  fables,  that 
thou  fhalt  rather  be  earneftly  entreated  to  repaire  to  his  houfe, 
then  euill  entreated  to  leaue  it.  As  olde  men  are  very  fufpicious 
to  miftruft  euery  thing,  fo  are  they  verye  credulous  to  beleeue 
any  thing :  the  blynde  man  doth  eate  manye  a  Flye,  yea  but 
fayd  Euphues,  take  heede  my  Philautus,  that  thou  thy  felf 
fwallow  not  a  Gudgen,  which  word  Philautus  did  not  mark, 
vntil  he  had  almoft  digefted  it.  But  faid  Euphues,  let  vs  go 
deuoutly  to  ye  fhrine  of  our  Saints,  there  to  offer  our  deuotion, 
for  my  books  teach  me,  that  fuch  a  wound  muft  be  healed  wher 
it  was  firft  hurt,  and  for  this  difeafe  we  will  vfe  a  common  remedie, 
but  yet  comfortable.  The  eye  that  blinded  thee,  fhall  make 
thee  fee,  the  Scorpion  that  ftung  thee  fhall  heale  thee,  a  fharpe 
fore  hath  a  fhort  cure,  let  vs  goe :  to  the  which  Euphues  conf ented 
willyngly,  fmiUng  to  himf elfe  to  fee  how  he  had  brought  Philautus, 
into  a  fooles  Paradife. 

Heere  you  may  fee  Gentlemen,  the  falfchood  in  fellowfhip, 
the  fraude  in  friendfhippe,  the  paynted  fheath  with  the  leaden 
dagger,  the  faire  wordes  that  make  fooles  faine :  but  I  will  not 
trouble  you  with  fuperfluous  addition,  vnto  whom  I  feare  mee  I 
haue  bene  tedious  with  the  bare  difcourfe  of  this  rude  hiftorie. 

Philautus  and  Euphues  repaired  to  the  houfe  of  Ferardo, 
where  they  founde  Miftres  Lucilla  and  Liuia,  accompanied  with 
other  Gentlewomen,  neyther  beeing  idle,  nor  well  imployed,  but 
placing  at  cardes.     But  when  Lucilla  beheld  Euphues,  fhe  coulde 


EVPHVES 


73 


fcarcely  conteine  hir  felfe  from  embracing  him,  had  not  womanly 
fhamefaftnes  and  Philautus  his  prefence,  ftayed  hir  wifedome. 

Euphues  on  the  other  fide  was  fallen  into  fuch  a  traunce,  that 
he  had  not  ye  power  either  to  fuccor  himfelfe,  or  falute  the 
gentlewomen.  At  the  laft  Lucilla,  began  as  one  that  beft  might 
be  bolde,  on  this  manner. 

Gentlemen,  although  your  long  abfence  gaue  mee  occafion  to 
think  that  you  diflyked  your  late  enterteinment,  yet  your 
comming  at  the  laft  hath  cut  off  my  former  fufpition  :  And  by  fo 
much  the  more  you  are  welcome,  by  how  much  the  more  you  were 
wifhed  for.  But  you  Gentleman  (taking  Euphues  by  the  hande) 
were  the  rather  wifhed  for,  for  that  your  difcourfe  being  left 
vnperfect,  caufed  vs  all  to  longe  (as  woemen  are  wont  for  thinges 
that  lyke  them)  to  haue  an  ende  thereoff .  Unto  whome  Philautus 
reply ed  as  followeth, 

Miftres  Lucilla,  though  your  curtefie  made  vs  nothing  to 
doubt  of  our  welcome,  yet  modeftye  caufed  vs  to  pinch  curtefie, 
who  fhould  firft  come  :  as  for  my  friende,  I  thinke  hee  was  neuer 
wyfhed  for  heere  fo  earneftly  of  any  as  of  himfelfe,  whether  it 
myght  be  to  renewe  his  talke,  or  to  recant  his  fayings,  I  cannot 
tell.  Euphues  takynge  the  tale  out  of  Philautus  mouth, 
aunfwered :  Miftres  Lucilla,  to  recant  verities  were  herefie,  and 
renewe  the  prayfes  of  woemen  flattery :  the  onely  caufe  I 
wyfhed  my  felfe  heere,  was  to  giue  thankes  for  fo  good  enter- 
tainment the  which  I  could  no  wayes  deferue,  and  to  breede  a 
greater  acquaintaunce  if  it  might  be  to  make  amendes. 

But  whileft  he  was  yet  fpeakinge,  Ferardo  entered,  whome 
they  all  duetifully  welcommed  home,  who  rounding  Philautus 
in  the  eare,  defired  hym  to  accompanye  hym  immediatlye  with- 
out farther  paufinge,  protefting  it  fhoulde  bee  as  well  for  his 
preferment  as  for  his  owne  profite.  Philautus  conf  en  tinge, 
Ferardo  fayde  vnto  hys  daughter. 

Lucilla,  the  vrgent  aff[a]yres  I  haue  in  hande,  wyll  fcarce 
fuffer  mee  to  tarrye  with  you  one  houre,  yet  my  returne  I  hope 
will  bee  fo  fhort,  that  my  abfence  fhall  not  breede  thy  forrowe : 
in  the  meane  feaf on  I  commit  all  things  into  thy  cuf tody,  wifhing 
thee  to  vfe  thy  accuftomable  curtefie.  And  feeing  I  muft  take 
Philautus  with  mee,  I  will  bee  fo  bolde  to  craue  you  Gentleman 


74  JOHN   LYLY 

(his  friende)  to  fupply  his  roome,  deliring  you  to  take  this  haftye 
warning  for  a  hartye  welcome,  and  fo  to  fpend  this  time  of  mine 
abfence  in  honeft  myrth.     And  thus  I  leaue  you. 

Philautus  knewe  well  the  caufe  of  thys  fodeyne  departure, 
which  was  to  redeeme  certeine  landes  that  were  morgaged  in  his 
Fathers  time,  to  the  vie  of  Ferardo,  who  on  that  condition  had 
before  time  promifed  him  his  daughter  in  mariage.  But  returne 
we  to  Euphues. 

Euphues  was  furprifed  with  fuch  increadible  ioye  at  this 
ftraunge  euent,  that  he  had  almof t  founded,  for  feeing  his  coriuall 
to  be  departed,  Siud Ferardo  to  giue  him  fo  friendly  entertaynment, 
doubted  not  in  time  to  get  the  good  wil  of  Lucilla:  Whom  find- 
ing in  place  conuenient  without  company,  with  a  bold  courage 
and  comely  gefture,  he  began  to  affay  hir  in  this  fort. 

Gentlewoman,  my  acquaintaunce  beeing  fo  little,  I  am  afrayd 
my  credite  wyll  be  leffe,  for  that  they  commonly  are  fooneft 
beleeued,  that  are  beft  beloued,  and  they  lyked  beft  whom  we 
haue  knowen  longeft,  neuertheleffe  the  noble  minde  fufpecteth 
no  guyle  without  cause,  neither  condemneth  any  wight  without 
proofe  :  hauing  therefore  notife  of  your  heroycall  heart,  I  am 
the  better  perfwaded  of  my  good  hap.  So  it  is  Lucilla,  that 
comming  to  Naples  but  to  fetch  fire,  as  the  by[e]  word  is,  not  to 
make  my  place  of  abode,  I  haue  founde  fuch  flames  that  I  can 
neither  quench  them  with  ye  water  of  free  will,  neither  coole 
them  with  wisdome.  It  is  your  beautie  (pardon  my  abrupte 
boldneffe)  Lady,  that  hath  taken  euery  parte  of  me  prifoner, 
and  brought  mee  vnto  this  deepe  diftreffe,  but  feeing  women 
when  one  prayfeth  them  for  their  deferts,  deeme  that  he  flattereth 
them  to  obteine  his  defire,  I  am  heere  prefent  to  yeeld  myfelfe 
to  fuch  tryal,  as  your  courtefie  in  this  behalfe  fhal  require. 
Thus  not  bUnded  by  light  affection,  but  dazcled  with  your  rare 
perfection,  and  boldened  by  your  exceeding  courtefie :  I  haue 
vnfoldcd  mine  entire  loue,  defiring  you  hauing  fo  good  leafure, 
to  giue  fo  friendlye  an  aunfwere,  as  I  may  receiue  comforte,  and 
you  commendacion. 

Lucilla,  although  fhc  were  contented  to  heare  this  defired 
difcourfe,  yet  did  fhcc  fccmc  to  bee  fomcwhat  difpleafed. 
And  trucly  I  know  not  whether  it  be  peculiar  to  that  fexe  to 


EVPHVES 


75 


diffemble  with  thofe  whom  they  moft  defire,  or  whether  by 
craft  they  haue  learned  outwardly  to  loath  that,  which  inwardly 
they  moft  loue :  yet  wifely  did  fhe  caft  this  in  hir  head,  that  if 
fhe  fhould  yeelde  at  the  firft  affault,  he  would  thinke  hir  a  light 
hufwife :  if  fhe  fhould  reiect  him  fcornfully  a  very  haggard : 
minding  therefore  that  he  fhoulde  neither  take  holde  of  hir 
promife,  neither  vnkindeneffe  of  hir  precifeneffe,  fhe  fed  him 
indifferently,  with  hope  and  difpaire,  reafon  and  affection,  Hfe 
and  death.  Yet  in  the  ende  arguing  wittily  vpon  certeine 
queftions,  they  fel  to  fuch  agreement,  as  poore  Philautus  would 
not  haue  agreed  vnto  if  he  had  ben  prefent,  yet  alwayes  keeping 
the  [her]  body  vndefiled.  And  thus  fhe  replyed  :  I  woulde  not 
Euphues  that  thou  fhouldeft  condemne  me  of  rigour,  in  that  I 
feeke  to  affwage  thy  folly  by  reafon :  but  take  this  by  the  way, 
that  although  as  yet  I  am  difpofed  to  lyke  of  none,  yet  when- 
foeuer  I  fhall  loue  any,  I  wil  not  forget  thee :  in  the  meane  feafon 
accompt  me  thy  friend,  for  thy  foe  I  will  neuer  be. 

Euphues  was  brought  into  a  great  quandary,  and  as  it  were  a 
colde  fhiuering,  to  heare  this  newe  kinde  of  kindneffe :  fuch 
fweete  meate,  fuch  fowre  fauce :  fuch  fayre  wordes,  fuch  fainte 
promifes  :  fuch  hot  loue,  fuch  colde  defire  :  fuch  certeine  hope, 
fuch  fodeine  chaunge :  and  f toode  lyke  one  that  had  looked  on 
Medufaes  heade,  and  fo  had  beene  tourned  into  a  ftone. 

Lucilla  feeing  him  in  this  pitiful  plight,  and  fearing  he  would 
take  ftand  if  the  lure  were  not  caft  out,  toke  him  by  the  hand, 
and  wringing  him  foftly,  with  a  fmiHng  countenaunce  began 
thus  to  comfort  him. 

Me  thinks  Euphues  chaunging  fo  your  colour,  vpon  the  fodeine, 
you  wil  foone  chaunge  your  coppie :  is  your  minde  on  your 
meate  ?  a  penny  for  your  thought. 

Miftres  (quoth  he)  if  you  would  by  al  my  thoughts  at  that 
price?  I  fhould  neuer  be  wearye  of  thinking,  but  feeing  it  is 
too  [fo]  deere,  reade  it  and  take  it  for  nothing. 

It  feemes  to  me  (faid  fhe)  that  you  are  in  fome  brown  f tudy, 
what  coulours  you  might  beft  weare  for  your  Lady. 

In  deede  Lucilla  you  leuel  fhrewdly  at  my  thought,  by  the 
ayme  of  your  owne  imagination,  for  you  haue  giuen  vnto  me  a 
true  loue[r]s  knot  wrought  of  chaungeable  Silke,  and  you  deeme 


76  JOHN   LYLY 

that  I  am  deuifing  how  I  might  haiie  my  coulours  chaungeable 
alfo,  that  they  might  agree :  But  lette  this  with  fuch  toyes  and 
deuifes  paffe,  if  it  pleafe  you  to  commaunde  me  anye  feruice 
I  am  heere  ready  to  attend  your  [pjleafure.  No  feruice  Euphues, 
but  that  you  keepe  filence,  vntil  I  haue  vttered  my  minde  :  and 
fecrecie  when  I  haue  vnfolded  my  meaning. 

If  I  fhould  offende  in  the  one  I  were  too  bolde,  if  in  the  other 
too  beaftly. 

Well  then  Euphues  (fayd  fhee)  fo  it  is,  that  for  the  hope  that 
I  conceiue  of  thy  loyaltie,  and  the  happie  fucceffe  that  is  like  to 
enfue  of  this  our  loue,  I  am  content  to  yeelde  thee  the  place  in 
my  heart  which  thou  defireft  and  deferueft  aboue  all  other, 
which  confent  in  me  if  it  may  any  wayes  breede  thy  contentation, 
fure  I  am  that  it  will  euery  way  worke  my  comfort.  But  as 
either  thou  tendereft  mine  honour  or  thine  owne  fafetie,  vfe 
fuch  fecrecie  in  this  matter,  that  my  father  haue  no  inckling 
heereoff,  before  I  haue  framed  his  minde  fit  for  our  purpofe. 
And  though  women  haue  fmall  force  to  ouercome  men  by  reafon, 
yet  haue  they  good  fortune  to  vndermine  them  by  pollicie.  No 
no,  Euphues,  thou  onely  haft  wonne  me  by  loue,  and  fhalt  onely 
weare  me  by  law :  I  force  not  Philautus  his  fury,  fo  I  may  haue 
Euphues  his  friendfhip :  neither  wil  I  prefer  his  poffeffions 
before  thy  perfon,  neither  efteme  better  of  his  lands,  then  of  thy 
loue.  Ferardo  fhal  fooner  difherite  me  of  my  patrimony,  then 
dif honour  me  in  breaking  my  promife?  It  is  not  his  great 
mannors,  but  thy  good  manners,  that  fhal  make  my  mariage. 
In  token  of  which  my  fincere  affection,  I  giue  thee  my  hande  in 
pawne,  and  my  heart  for  euer  to  be  thy  Lucilla.  Vnto  whom 
Euphues  aunfwered  in  this  manner. 

If  my  tongue  were  able  to  vtter  the  ioyes  that  my  heart  hath 
conceiued,  I  feare  me  though  I  be  well  beloued,  yet  I  fhould 
hardly  be  beleeued.  Ah  my  Lucilla,  how  much  am  I  bound  to 
thee,  which  preferreft  mine  vnworthineffe,  before  thy  Fathers 
wrath  :  my  happineffe,  before  thine  owne  miffortune :  my  loue, 
before  thine  owne  life  ?  Commaund  Euphues  to  runne,  to  ride, 
to  vndertakc  any  exployt  be  it  neuer  fo  daungerous,  to  hazard 
himfelfe  in  any  enterprife,  be  it  neuer  fo  defperate. 


EVPHVES 


77 


And  thus  being  fupper  time  they  all  fate  downe,  Lucilla  well 
pleafed,  no  man  better  content  then  Euphues,  who  after  his 
repaft  hauing  no  opportunitie  to  confer  with  his  louer,  had  fmall 
luft  to  continue  with  the  gentlewomen  any  longer,  he  coyned  an 
excufe  to  haften  his  departure,  promifing  the  next  morning  to 
trouble  them  againe  as  a  guef  t  more  bold  then  welcome,  although 
in  deede  he  thought  himfelfe  to  be  the  better  welcome,  in  faying 
that  he  would  come. 

But  as  Ferardo  went  in  poft,  fo  hee  retourned  in  haft  hauing 
concluded  with  PJiilaiitus,  that  the  mariage  fhould  immediatly 
be  confummated,  which  wrought  fuch  a  content  in  Fhilautus, 
that  he  was  almoft  in  an  extafie  through  the  extremitie  of  his 
paffions. 

Hee  vrged  therefore  Ferardo  to  breake  with  his  Daughter, 
who  beeing  willyng  to  haue  the  matche  made,  was  content 
incontinentlye  to  procure  the  meanes :  finding  therefore  his 
daughter  at  leafure,  and  hauing  knowledge  of  hir  former  loue, 
fpake  to  hir  as  followeth. 

Deere  daughter  as  thou  haft  long  time  lined  a  maiden,  fo  now 
thou  muft  learne  to  be  a  Mother,  and  as  I  haue  bene  carefull 
to  bring  thee  vp  a  Virgin,  fo  am  I  now  def irons  to  make  thee  a 
Wife.  Neither  ought  I  in  this  matter  to  vfe  any  perfwafions, 
for  that  maidens  commonly  now  a  dayes  are  no  fooner  borne, 
but  they  beginne  to  bride  it :  neither  to  offer  any  great  portions, 
for  that  thou  knoweft  thou  fhalt  enherite  al  my  poffeffions. 
Mine  onely  care  hath  bene  hetherto,  to  match  thee  with  fuch  an 
one,  as  fhoulde  be  of  good  wealth,  able  to  mainteine  thee :  of 
great  worfhip,  able  to  compare  with  thee  in  birth :  of  honeft 
conditions,  to  deferue  thy  loue :  and  an  Italian  borne  to  enioy 
my  landes.  At  the  laft  I  haue  found  one  aunfwerable  to  my 
defire,  a  Gentleman  of  great  reuenewes,  of  a  noble  progenie,  of 
honeft  behauiour,  of  comly  perfonage,  borne  and  brought  vp  in 
Naples,  Fhilautus  (thy  friend  as  I  geffe)  thy  husband  Lucilla 
if  thou  lyke  it,  neither  canf t  thou  difhke  him,  who  wanteth  noth- 
ing that  fhould  caufe  thy  hking,  neither  hath  any  thing  that 
fhould  breede  thy  loathing. 

And  furely  I  reioyce  the  more  that  thou  fhalt  bee  linked  to 
him  in  mariage,  whom  thou  haft  loued,  as  I  heare  beeing  a 


78  JOHN   LYLY 

maiden,  neither  can  there  any  iarres  kindle  betweene  them,  wher 
the  mindes  be  fo  vnited,  neither  any  iealoufie  arife,  where  loue 
hath  fo  long  bene  fetled.  Therefore  Lucilla,  to  the  ende  the 
defire  of  either  of  you  may  now  be  accomplyfhed  to  the  delyght 
of  you  both,  I  am  heere  come  to  finifhe  the  contract  by  giuing 
handes,  which  you  haue  already  begunne  betweene  your  felues 
by  ioyning  of  hearts,  that  as  GOD  doth  witneffe  the  one  in  your 
confciences,  fo  the  world  may  teftifie  the  other,  by  your  con- 
uerfations,  and  therefore  Lucilla,  make  fuch  aunfwere  to  my 
requeft,  as  may  lyke  me  and  fatiffie  thy  friende. 

Lucilla  abafhed  with  this  fodaine  fpeach  of  hir  father,  yet 
boldened  by  the  loue  of  hir  friend,  with  a  comly  bafhfulneffe, 
aunfwered  him  in  this  manner. 

Reuerend  fir,  the  fweeteneffe  that  I  haue  found  in  the 
vndefyled  eftate  of  virginitie,  caufeth  me  to  loath  the  fower 
lauce  which  is  myxed  with  matrimony,  and  the  quiet  Ufe  which  I 
haue  tryed  being  a  mayden,  maketh  me  to  fhun  the  cares  that 
are  alwayes  incident  to  a  mother,  neither  am  I  fo  wedded  to  the 
world  that  I  fhould  be  moued  with  great  poffeffions. 

My  duetie  therefore  euer  referued,  I  here  on  my  knees  for- 
fweare  Philautus  for  my  husband,  although  I  accept  him  for  my 
friend,  and  feeing  I  fhal  hardly  be  induced  euer  to  match  with 
any,  I  befech  you  if  by  your  fatherly  loue  I  fhall  be  compelled, 
that  I  may  match  with  fuch  a  one  as  both  I  may  loue  and  you 
may  lyke. 

Ferardo  being  a  graue  and  wife  Gentleman,  although  he  were 
throughly  angry,  yet  he  diffembled  his  fury,  to  the  ende  he  might 
by  craft  difcouer  hir  fancy,  and  whifpering  Philautus  in  the  eare 
(who  ftoode  as  though  he  had  a  flea  in  his  eare)  defired  him  to 
kepe  filence,  vntil  he  had  vndermined  hir  by  fubtiltie,  which 
Philautus  hauing  graunted,  Ferardo  began  to  fift  his  daughter 
with  this  deuice.  Lucilla,  thy  coulour  fheweth  thee  to  bee  in  a 
great  choler,  and  thy  hotte  wordes  bewray  thy  heauy  wrath,  but 
be  patient,  feing  al  my  talke  was  onely  to  trye  thee  :  I  am  neither 
fo  vnnaturall  to  wreaft  thee  againft  thine  owne  wil,  neither  fo 
malytious  to  wedde  thee  to  any  againft  thine  own  lyking :  for 
well  I  know  what  iarres,  what  ieloufie,  what  ftrife,  what  ftormes 
enfue,  where  the  match  is  made  rather  by  the  compulfion  of  the 


EVPHVES 


79 


parents,  then  by  the  confent  of  the  parties :  neither  doe  I  hke 
thee  the  leffe  in  that  thou  lykeft  Philautus  fo  httle,  neither  can 
Philautus  loue  thee  ye  worfe  in  that  thou  loueft  thy  felfe  fo  well, 
wifhing  rather  to  ftande  to  thy  chaunce,  then  to  the  choyce  of 
any  other.  But  this  grieueth  me  moft,  that  thou  art  almoft 
vowed  to  the  vayne  order  of  the  veftal  virgins.  Thou  knoweft 
that  the  talleft  Afh  is  cut  down  for  fuell,  bicaufe  it  beareth  no 
good  fruite :  that  the  Cow  that  giues  no  milke,  is  brought  to  the 
flaughter :  that  the  Drone  that  gathereth  no  Honny  is  con- 
temned :  that  the  woman  that  maketh  hir  felfe  barren  by  not 
marrying,  is  accompted  amonge  the  Grecian  Ladyes  worfe  then  a 
carryon,  as  Honier  reporteth. 

Therefore  Lucilla,  if  thou  haue  any  care  to  be  a  comfort  to  my 
hoary  haires,  or  a  commoditie  to  thy  common  weale,  frame  thy 
felf  to  that  honourable  ef tate  of  Matrimony,  which  was  fanctified 
in  Paradife,  allov/ed  of  the  Patriarches,  hallowed  of  the  olde 
Prophets,  and  commended  of  al  perfons.  If  thou  lyke  any,  be 
not  afhamed  to  tell  it  me,  which  onely  am  to  exhort  thee,  yea 
and  as  much  as  in  me  lyeth  to  commaunde  thee,  to  loue  one. 

Lucilla  perceiuing  the  drift  of  the  olde  Foxe  hir  father,  waied 
with  hir  felf  what  was  the  beft  to  be  done,  at  the  laft  not  waying 
hir  fathers  ill  will,  but  encouraged  by  loue,  fhaped  him  an  aun- 
fwere  which  pleafed  Ferardo  but  a  lyttle,  and  pinched  Philautus 
on  the  perfons  fyde,  on  this  manner. 

Deere  Father  Ferardo,  although  I  fee  the  bayte  you  laye  to 
catch  mee,  yet  I  am  content  to  fwallowe  the  hooke,  neither  are 
you  more  dcfirous  to  take  mee  napping,  then  I  wiUing  to  confeffe 
my  meaning.  So  it  is  that  loue  hath  as  well  inuegled  me  as 
others,  which  make  it  as  ftraunge  as  I.  Neither  doe  I  loue  him 
fo  meanely  that  I  fhould  be  afhamed  of  his  name,  neither  is  his 
perfonage  fo  meane  that  I  fhoulde  loue  him  fhamefully :  It  is 
Euphues  that  lately  a[r]riued  here  at  Naples,  that  hath  battered 
the  bulwark  of  my  breft,  and  fhal  fhortly  enter  as  conquerour 
into  my  bofome.  And  I  hope  Philautus  will  not  be  my  foe, 
feeing  I  haue  chofen  his  deere  friend,  neither  you  Father  be 
dif pleafed,  in  that  Philautus  is  dif placed. 

Ferardo  interrupting  hir  in  the  middle  of  hir  difcourfe,  although 
he  were  moued  with  inward  grudge,  yet  he  wifely  repreffed  his 


8o  JOHN   LYLY- 

anger,  knowing  that  fharp  words  would  but  fharpen  hir  froward 
will,  and  thus  aunfwered  hir  briefely. 

Lucilla,  as  I  am  not  prefently  to  graunt  my  good  wil,  fo 
meane  I  not  to  reprehend  thy  choyce,  yet  wifedome  willeth  me 
to  pawfe,  vntill  I  haue  called  what  may  happen  to  my  remem- 
braunce,  and  warneth  thee  to  be  circumfpect,  leaft  thy  rafh 
conceipt  bring  a  fharpe  repentaunce.  As  for  you  Philautus,  I 
would  not  haue  you  difpayre,  feeing  a  woman  doth  oftentimes 
chaunge  hir  defyre.  Vnto  whome  Philautus  in  few  words  made 
aunfwere. 

Certeinely  Ferardo  I  take  the  leffe  griefe,  in  that  I  fee  hir  fo 
greedy  after  Euphues,  and  by  fo  much  the  more  I  am  content  to 
leaue  my  fute,  by  how  much  the  more  fhe  feemeth  to  difdaine 
my  feruice  :  but  as  for  hope,  bicaufe  I  would  not  by  any  meanes 
tafte  one  dramme  thereof?,  I  wil  abiure  all  places  of  hir  abode, 
and  loath  hir  company,  whofe  countenaunce  I  haue  fo  much 
loued :  as  for  Euphues,  and  there  ftaying  his  fpeach,  he  flang 
out  of  the  dores  and  repairing  to  his  lodging,  vttered  thefe 
words. 

Ah  moft  diffembling  wretch  Euphues,  O  counterfayte  com- 
panion, couldeft  thou  vnder  the  fhewe  of  a  ftedfaft  friende 
cloake  the  mallice  of  a  mortall  foe  ?  vnder  the  coulour  of  fim- 
plicitie,  fhrowd  the  Image  of  deceipt  ?  Is  thy  Liuia,  tourned 
to  my  Lucilla  ?  thy  loue,  to  my  louer  :  thy  deuotion  to  my  Saint  ? 
Is  this  the  curtefie  of  Athens,  the  cauilling  of  fchollers,  the  crafte 
of  Grecians?  But  why  rather  exclaime  I  not  againft  Lucilla 
whofe  wanton  lookes  caufed  Euphues  to  violate  his  plighted 
faith  ?  Ah  wretched  wench,  canft  thou  be  fo  lyght  of  loue,  as 
to  chaunge  with  euery  winde  ?  fo  vnconftant  as  to  prefer  a  new 
louer  before  thine  [an]  olde  friend  ?  Haue  I  ferued  thee  three 
yeares  faithfully,  and  am  I  ferued  f o  vnkindely  ?  fhall  the  fruite 
of  my  defire  be  tourned  to  difdaine?  But  vnleffe  Euphues  had 
inueigled  thee,  thou  hadf t  yet  bene  conftant :  yea,  but  if  Euphues 
had  not  feene  thee  willyng  to  be  wonne,  he  woulde  neuer  haue 
wo[o]ed  thee :  But  had  not  Euphues  entifed  thee  with  faire 
wordes,  thou  wouldft  neuer  haue  loued  him  :  but  hadft  thou  not 
giucn  him  faire  lookes,  he  would  neuer  haue  liked  thee :  I,  but 
Euphues  gauc  the  onfct :    I,  but  Lucilla  gaue  the  occafion :    I, 


EVPHVES  8 I 

but  Euphues  firft  brake  his  minde  :  I,  but  Lucilla  firft  bewrayed 
hir  meaning.  Tufh  why  goe  I  about  to  excufe  any  of  them, 
feeing  I  haue  iuf t  caufe  to  accufe  them  both.  Neither  ought  I  to 
difpute  which  of  them  hath  proferred  me  the  greateft  villany,  fith 
that  either  of  them  hath  committed  periury.  Yet  although  they 
haue  found  me  dull  in  perceiuing  their  falfehood,  they  fhall  not 
finde  me  flacke  in  reuenging  their  folly.  As  for  Lucilla,  feing  I 
meane  altogether- to  forget  hir,  I  meane  alfo  to  forgiue  hir,  leaft  in 
feeking  meanes  to  be  reuenged,  mine  olde  defire  be  renewed. 

Philautus  hauing  thus  difcourfed  with  himfelfe,  began  to  write 
to  Euphues  as  followeth. 

Although  hetherto  Euphues,  I  haue  fhrined  thee  in  my  heart 
for  a  truftie  friende,  I  will  fhunne  thee  heereafter  as  a  trothleffe 
foe,  and  although  I  cannot  fee  in  thee  leffe  wit  then  I  was  wont, 
yet  doe  I  finde  leffe  honeftie.  But  thou  haft  not  much  to  boaft 
off,  for  as  thou  haft  won  a  fickle  Lady,  fo  haft  thou  loft  a  faithful 
friend.  How  canft  thou  be  fecure  of  hir  conftancie,  when  thou 
haft  had  fuch  tryall  of  hir  lyghtneffe  ? 

How  canft  thou  affure  thy  felfe  that  fhe  will  bee  faithfull  to 
thee,  which  hath  bene  faithleffe  to  me  ?  Ah  Euphues,  let  not 
my  credulitie  be  an  occafion  heereafter  for  thee  to  practife  the 
lyke  crueltie.  Remember  this  that  yet  there  hath  neuer  bene 
any  faythleffe  to  his  friende,  that  hath  not  alfo  bene  fruiteleffe 
to  his  God.  But  I  way  the  treacherie  the  leffe,  in  that  it  commeth 
from  a  Grecian,  in  whome  is  not  trouth.  Though  I  be  to  weake 
to  wraftle  for  a  reuenge,  yet  God  who  permitteth  no  guile  to  be 
guiltleffe,  will  fhortly  requite  this  iniury  :  though  Philautus  haue 
no  polhcie  to  vndermine  thee,  yet  thine  owne  practifes  will  be 
fufficient  to  ouerthrow  thee. 

I  will  pray  that  thou  maift  be  mefured  vnto  with  the  lyke 
meafure  that  thou  haft  meaten  vnto  others :  that  [is,]  as  thou 
haft  thought  it  no  confcience  to  betray  mee,  fo  otheres  may 
deeme  it  no  difhoneftie  to  deceiue  thee  :  that  as  Lucilla  made  it  a 
light  matter  to  forfweare  hir  olde  friend  Philautus,  fo  fhe  may 
make  it  a  mocke  to  forfake  hir  new  pheere  Euphues.  Which  if  it 
come  to  paffe,  as  it  is  lyke  by  my  compaffe,  then  fhalt  thou  fee 
the  troubles  and  feele  the  torments  which  thou  haft  already 
throwne  into  the  heartes  and  eyes  of  others. 


S2  JOHN   LYLY 

Thus  hoping  fhortly  to  fee  thee  as  hopeleffe,  as  my  felfe  is 
haples,  I  wifh  my  wifh,  were  as  affectually  ended,  as  it  is  hartely 
looked  for.     And  fo  I  leaue  thee. 

Thine  once 
Philautus. 

Philautus  difpatching  a  meffenger  with  this  letter  fpeadely 
to  Euphues,  went  into  the  fields  to  walk  ther,  either  to  digeft 
his  choler,  or  chew  vpon  his  melancholy.  But  Euphues  hauing 
reade  the  contents,  was  well  content,  fetting  his  talke  at  naught, 
and  anfwering  his  taunts  in  thefe  gibing  termes. 

I  REMEMBER  PMlautus  how  valyantly  Aiax  boafted  in  the 
feates  of  armes,  yet  Vlyffes  bare  away  the  armour :  and  it  may 
be  that  though  thou  crake  of  thine  owne  courage,  thou  maift 
eafily  lofe  the  conqueft.  The  friendfhip  betweene  man  and  man 
as  it  is  common  fo  is  it  of  courfe  :  betweene  man  and  woman,  as 
it  is  feldome  fo  is  it  fincere,  the  one  proceedeth  of  the  fimilitude 
of  manners,  the  other  of  ye  fincerity  of  the  heart :  if  thou  haddeft 
learned  the  firft  point  [part]  of  hauking,  thou  wouldft  haue 
learned  to  haue  held  faft,  or  the  firft  noat  of  Defcant,  thou 
wouldeft,  haue  kept  thy  Sol.  Fa.  to  thy  felfe. 

But  thou  canft  blame  me  no  more  of  folly  in  leaning  thee  to 
loue  Lucilla,  then  thou  maist  reproue  him  of  foolifhneffe  that 
hauing  a  Sparrow  in  his  hande  letteth  hir  goe  to  catch  the  Pheaf- 
ant.  I  am  of  this  minde,  that  both  might  and  mallice,  deceyte 
and  trecherye,  all  periurye,  any  impietie  may  lawfully  be  com- 
mitted in  loue,  which  is  lawleffe.  Tufh  Philautus  fet  thy 
heart  at  reft,  for  thy  happe  willeth  thee  to  giue  ouer  all  hope 
both  of  my  friendfhip,  and  hir  loue :  as  for  reuenge  thou  art  not 
fo  able  to  Icnde  a  blow  as  I  to  ward  it :  neither  more  ventcrous  to 
challenge  the  combattc,  then  I  valiant  to  aunfwere  the  quarrell. 
As  Lucilla  was  caught  by  fraudc,  fo  fhal  fhc  be  kept  by  force : 
and  as  thou  waft  too  fimple  to  cfpic  my  craftc,  fo  I  thinke  thou 
wilt  be  too  weake  to  withf  tande  my  courage  :  but  if  thy  reuenge 
ftande  onely  vpon  thy  wifh,  thou  fhalt  neuer  hue  to  fee  my  woe, 
or  to  haue  thy  wil,  and  fo  farewell. 

Euphues. 


EVPHVES  Ss 

This  letter  being  difpatched,  Euphues  lent  it,  and  Philautus 
read  it,  who  difdayning  thofe  proud  termes,  difdayned  alfo  to 
aunfwere  them,  being  readie  to  ryde  with  Ferardo. 

Euphues  hauing  for  a  fpace  ablented  himfelfe  from  the  houfe 
of  Ferardo,  bicaufe  he  was  at  home,  longed  fore  to  fee  Lucilla, 
which  nowe  opportunitie  offered  vnto  him,  Ferardo  being  gon 
again  to  Venice  with  Philautus,  but  in  this  his  abfence,  one 
Curio  a  Gentleman  of  Naples  of  httle  wealth  and  leffe  wit, 
haunted  Lucilla  hir  company,  and  fo  enchaunted  hir,  that 
Euphues  was  alfo  caft  off  with  Philautus,  which  thing  being 
•  vnknown  to  Euphues,  caufed  him  the  f ooner  to  make  his  repayre 
to  the  prefence  of  his  Lady,  whome  he  finding  in  hir  mufes, 
began  pleafantly  to  falute  in  this  manner. 

Miftreffe  Lucilla,  although  my  long  abfence  might  breede  your 
iuft  anger,  (for  that  louers  defire  nothing  fo  much  as  often  meet- 
ing) yet  I  hope  my  prefence  will  diffolue  your  choler  (for  yat  louers 
are  foone  pleafed  when  of  their  wifhes  they  be  fully  poffeffed). 
My  abfence  is  the  rather  to  be  excufed  in  yat  your  father  hath 
bene  alwayes  at  home,  whofe  frownes  feemed  to  threaten  my  ill 
fortune,  and  my  prefence  at  this  prefent  the  better  to  be  accepted, 
in  that  I  haue  made  fuch  fpeedy  repaire  to  your  prefence. 

Vnto  whom  Lucilla  aunfwered  with  this  glyeke. 

Truely  Euphues  you  haue  mift  the  cufhion,  for  I  was  neither 
angry  with  your  long  abfence,  neither  am  I  well  pleafed  at  your 
prefence,  the  one  gaue  mee  rather  a  good  hope  heereafter  neuer 
to  fee  you,  ye  other  giueth  me  a  greater  occafion  to  abhorre  you. 

Euphues  being  nipped  on  the  head,  with  a  pale  countenaunce 
as  though  his  foule  had  forfaken  his  body,  replyed  as  followeth. 

If  this  fodaine  chaunge  Lucilla,  proceed  of  any  defert  of  mine, 
I  am  heere  not  only  to  aunfwere  the  fact,  but  alfo  to  make  amends 
for  my  fault :  if  of  any  new  motion  or  minde  to  forfake  your  new 
friend,  I  am  rather  to  lament  your  inconftancie  then  reuenge  it : 
but  I  hope  that  fuch  hot  loue  cannot  be  fo  foone  colde,  neither 
fuch  fure  faith  be  rewarded  with  fo  fodeine  forgetfulneffe. 

Lucilla  not  afhamed  to  confeffe  hir  folly,  aunfwered  him  with 
this  frumpe. 

Sir,  whether  your  deferts  or  my  defire  haue  wrought  this 


84  JOHN   LYLY 

chaunge,  it  will  boote  you  lyttle  to  know,  neither  do  I  craue 
amends,  neither  feare  reuenge :  as  for  feruent  loue,  you  know 
there  is  no  fire  fo  hotte  but  it  is  quenched  with  water,  neither 
affection  fo  ftrong  but  is  weakened  with  reafon,  let  this  fuffice 
thee,  that  thou  knowe  I  care  not  for  thee. 

Then  I  perceiue  Lucilla  (faid  he)  that  I  was  made  thy  ftale, 
and  Philautus  thy  laughing  ftocke :  whofe  friendfhip  (I  muft 
conf eff e  in  deede) ,  I  haue  refuf ed  to  obteine  thy  fauour  :  and 
fithens  an  other  hath  won  that  we  both  haue  loft,  I  am  content 
for  my  parte,  neither  ought  I  to  be  grieued  feeing  thou  art  fickle. 

Certes  EiipJmes  (faid  Lucilla)  you  fpend  your  wind  in  waft,  for 
your  welcome  is  but  fmall,  and  your  cheere  is  Hke  to  be  leffe,  f ancie 
giueth  no  refon  of  his  [her]  change  neither  will  be  controlled  for 
any  choice  :  this  is  therefore  to  warn  you,  that  from  henceforth 
you  neither  fohcite  this  fute,  neither  offer  any  way  your  feruice. 

Well  Lucilla  (aunfwered  Euphues)  this  cafe  breedeth  my  forrow 
the  more,  in  that  it  is  fo  fodeine,  and  by  fo  much  the  more  I 
lament  it,  by  how  much  ye  leffe  I  looked  for  it. 

Euphues  (quoth  fhee)  you  make  a  long  Harueft  for  a  lyttle 
corne,  and  angle  for  the  fifh  that  is  alreadie  caught.  Curio,  yea, 
Curio  is  he  that  hath  my  loue  at  his  pleafure,  and  fhall  alfo  haue 
my  life  at  his  commaundement. 

******* 

If  Curio  be  the  perfon,  [said  he]  I  would  neither  wifh  thee  a 
greater  plague,  nor  him  a  deadlyer  poyfon.  I  for  my  part 
thinke  him  worthy  of  thee,  and  thou  vnworthie  of  him,  for  al- 
though he  be  in  body  deformed,  in  minde  fooHfh,  an  innocent 
borne,  a  begger  by  miffortune,  yet  doth  he  dcferve  a  better  then 
thy  felfe,  whofe  corrupte  manners  haue  ftained  thy  heauenly 
hue,  whofe  lyght  behauior  hath  dimmed  the  lights  of  thy  bcautie, 
whofe  vnconftant  minde  hath  betrayed  the  innocencie  of    fo 

many  a  Gentleman. 

******* 

Therefore  farewell  Lucilla,  the  moft  inconftant  that  euer  was 
nurfed  in  Naples,  farcwel  Naples  the  moft  curfed  towne  in  all 
Ilaly,  and  women  all  farewell. 

Euphues  hauing  thus  giuen  hir  his  laft  farewell,  yet  being 
folytary,  began  a  frcfh  to  recount  his  forrow  on  this  manner. 


EVPHVES  85 

A  foolifh  Euphues,  why  didcieft  thou  leaiie  Athens,  the  nurfe  of 
wifdome,  to  inhabite  Naples  the  nourifher  of  wantonneffe  ? 
Had  it  not  beene  better  for  thee  to  haue  eaten  fait  with  the 
Philofophers  in  Greece,  then  fugar  with  the  courtiers  of  Italy? 
But  behold  the  courfe  of  youth,  which  alwayes  enclyneth  to 
pleafure,  I  forfooke  mine  olde  companions  to  fearch  for  new 
friendes,  I  reiected  the  graue  and  fatherly  counfaile  of  Eiihulus,^ 
to  follow  the  brainficke  humor  of  mine  owne  will.  I  addicted  my 
felfe  wholly  to  the  feruice  of  woemen,  to  fpend  my  hfe  in  the 
lappes  of  Ladyes,  my  lands  in  maintenance  of  brauery,  my  wit 
in  the  vanities  of  idle  Sonnettes.  I  had  thought  that  woemen  had 
bene  as  we  men,  that  is  true,  faithfull,  zealous,  conftant,  but  I 
perceiue  they  be  rather  woe  vnto  men,  by  their  falfehoode, 
geloufie,  [and]  inconftancye.  I  will  to  Athens,  there  to  toffe  my 
bookes,  no  more  in  Naples  to  Hue  with  faire  lookes.  I  will  fo 
frame  my  felf,  as  ah  youth  heereafter  fhal  rather  reioyce  to  fee 
mine  amendment,  then  be  animated  to  follow  my  former  life. 
Philofophy,  Phifick,  Diuinitie,  fhal  be  my  ftudy. 

But  feeing  I  fee  mine  owne  impietie,  I  will  endeauour  my  felfe 
to  amende  all  that  is  paft,  and  to  bee  a  myrrour  of  Godlineffe 
hereafter.  As  therefore  I  gaue  a  farewell  to  Lucilla,  a  farewell 
to  Naples,  a  farewell  to  women,  fo  nowe  doe  I  giue  a  farewell 
to  the  worlde,  meaning  rather  to  macerate  my  felfe  with  mel- 
ancholye,  then  pine  in  follye,  rather  choofing  to  dye  in  my 
ftudye  amiddeft  my  bookes,  then  to  court  it  in  Italy,  in  ye  com- 
pany of  ladyes. 

Euphues  hauing  thus  debated  with  himfelfe,  went  to  his  bed, 
ther  either  with  fleepe  to  deceiue  his  fancye,  or  with  mufing  to 
renue  his  ill  fortune,  or  recant  his  olde  follyes. 

But  it  happened  immediatly  Ferardo  to  returne  home,  who 
hearing  this  ftraunge  euent,  was  not  a  lyttle  amazed,  and  was 
nowe  more  readye  to  exhorte  Lucilla  from  the  loue  of  Curio, 
then  before  to  the  lyking  of  Philautus.  Therefore  in  all  hafte, 
with  watrye  eyes,  and  a  woeful  heart,  began  on  this  manner  to 
reafon  with  his  daughter. 

Lucilla  (daughter  I  am  afhamed  to  call  thee,  feeing  thou  haft 

'  An  old  gentleman  who  offers  Euphues  wholesome  advice  soon  after  his  arrival  at 

Naples. 


S6  JOHN  LYLY 

neither  care  of  thy  fathers  tender  affection,  nor  of  thine  owne 
credite)  what  fp[i]rite  hath  enchaunted  thy  fpirit,  that  euery 
minute  thou  altereft  thy  minde  ?  I  had  thought  that  my  hoary 
haires  fhould  haue  found  comforte  by  thy  golden  lockes,  and  my 
rotten  age  great  eafe  by  thy  rype  years.  But  alas  I  fee  in  thee 
neither  wit  to  order  thy  doings,  neither  wil  to  frame  thy  felfe  to 
difcretion,  neither  the  nature  of  a  childe,  neithei  the  nurture  of  a 
mayden,  neither  (I  cannot  without  teares  fpeake  it)  any  regard 
of  thine  honour,  neither  any  care  of  thine  honeftie. 

Shall  thine  olde  father  lyue  to  fee  thee  match  with  a  young 
foole  ?  fhall  my  kinde  heart  be  rewarded  with  fuch  vnkinde  hate  ? 
Ah  Lucilla,  thou  knowef  t  not  the  care  of  a  father,  nor  the  duetie  of 
a  childe,  and  as  farre  art  thou  from  pietie  as  I  from  crueltie. 

Nature  will  not  permit  me  to  difherit  my  daughter,  and  yet  it 
will  fuffer  thee  to  difhonour  thy  father.  Affection  caufeth  me 
to  wifh  thy  lyfe,  and  fhall  it  entice  thee  to  procure  my  death  ? 
It  is  mine  onely  comfort  to  fee  thee  flourifh  in  thy  youth,  and  is 
it  thine  to  fee  me  fade  in  mine  age  ?  to  conclude  I  defire  to  liue 
to  fee  thee  profper,  and  thou  to  fee  me  perifh.  But  why  caft  I 
the  effecte  of  this  vnnaturalneffe  in  thy  teeth,  feeing  I  my  felfe 
was  the  caufe  ?  I  made  more  of  thee  then  became  a  Father,  and 
thou  leffe  of  me  then  befeemed  a  childe.  And  fhall  my  louing 
care  be  caufe  of  thy  wicked  crueltie  ?  Yea,  yea,  I  am  not  the 
firft  that  hath  bene  too  carefull,  nor  the  laft  that  fhall  bee 
handeled  fo  vnkindely :  It  is  common  to  fee  fathers  too  fonde, 
and  children  too  frowarde.  Well  Lucilla,  the  teares  which  thou 
feeft  trickle  downe  my  cheekes,  and  my  droppes  of  bloude 
(which  thou  canft  not  fee)  that  fal  from  my  heart,  enforce  mee 
to  make  an  ende  of  my  talke,  and  if  thou  haue  any  duetie  of  a 
childe,  or  care  of  a  friende,  or  courtefic  of  a  f traunger,  or  feelyng 
of  a  Chriftian,  or  humanitie  of  a  reafonable  creature,  then 
releafe  thy  father  of  griefe,  and  acquite  thy  felfe  of  vngrate- 
fulneffe :  Otherwife  thou  fhalt  but  haften  my  death,  and  cn- 
creafe  thine  owne  defame  :  Which  if  thou  doe,  the  gaine  is  mine, 
and  the  loffe  thine,  and  both  infinite. 

Lucilla  either  fo  bewitched  that  fhe  could  not  relent,  or  fo 
wicked  that  fhe  would  not  ycelde  to  hir  Fathers  requeft,  aun- 
fwered  him  on  this  manner. 


EVPHVES  87 

Deere  Father,  as  you  would  haue  me  to  fhewe  the  duetie  of  a 
childe,  fo  ought  you  to  fhewe  the  care  of  a  Parent,  for  as  the  one 
ftandeth  in  obedience  fo  the  other  is  grounded  vpon  refon. 
You  would  haue  me  as  I  owe  duetie  to  you  to  leaue  Curio,  and 
I  defire  you  as  you  owe  mee  any  loue  that  you  fuffer  me  to  enioy 
him.  If  you  accufe  me  of  vnnaturalnes  in  that  I  yeeld  not  to 
your  requef t,  I  am  alfo  to  condempne  you  of  vnkindneffe,  in  that 
you  graunt  not  my  peticion. 

Ferardo  feeing  his  daughter,  to  haue  neither  regarde  of  hir 
owne  honour  nor  his  requeft,  conceyued  fuch  an  inward  griefe 
that  in  fhort  fpace  he  dyed,  leaning  Lucilla  the  onely  heire  of 
his  lands,  and  Curio  to  poffeffe  them,  but  what  ende  came  of  hir, 
feing  it  is  nothing  incident  to  the  hiftory  of  EupJmes,  it  were 
fuperfluous  to  infert  it,  and  fo  incredible  that  all  women  would 
rather  wonder  at  it  then  beleeue  it,  which  euent  beeing  f o  f  traunge, 
I  had  rather  leaue  them  in  a  mufe  what  it  fhould  be,  then  in  a 
maze  in  telling  what  it  was. 

PhilaiUus  hauing  intellygence  of  Euphues  his  fucceffe,  and  the 
falfehoode  of  Lucilla,  although  he  began  to  reioyce  at  the  miferie 
of  his  fellow,  yet  feeing  hir  fickleneff e,  coulde  not  but  lament  hir 
folly,  and  pitie  his  friends  miffortune.  Thinking  that  the 
lyghtneffe  of  Lucilla  enticed  Euphues  to  fo  great  lyking. 

Euphues  and  Philautus  hauing  conference  between  themfelues, 
cafting  difcourtefie  in  thee  teeth  each  of  the  other,  but  chiefely 
noting  difloyaltie  in  the  demeanor  of  Lucilla,  after  much  talke 
renewed  their  old  friendfhip  both  abandoning  Lucilla,  as  moft 
abhominable.  Philautus  was  earneft  to  haue  Euphues  tarye  in 
Naples,  and  Euphues  defirous  to  haue  Philautus  to  Athens,  but 
the  one  was  fo  addicted  to  the  court,  the  other  fo  wedded  to  the 
vniuerfitie,  that  each  refufed  the  offer  of  the  other,  yet  this  they 
agreed  betweene  themfelues,  that  though  their  bodies  were  by 
diftance  of  place  feuered,  yet  the  coniunction  of  their  mindes 
fhould  neither  be  feperated  by  ye  length  of  time  nor  alienated  by 
change  of  foyle,  I  for  my  part  faid  Euphues,  to  confirme  me  this 
league,  giue  thee  my  hande  and  my  heart,  and  fo  hkewife  did 
Philautus,  and  fo  fhaking  handes,  they  bidde  each  other  farewell. 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA 
SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

BOOK  I 

[The   Shipwreck] 

It  was  in  the  time  that  the  earth  begins  to  put  on  her  new 
apparel  against  the  approach  of  her  lover,  and  that  the  sun 
running  a  most  even  course,  becomes  an  indifferent  arbiter 
between  the  night  and  the  day,  when  the  hopeless  shepherd 
Strephon  was  come  to  the  sands,  which  lie  against  the  island  of 
Cithera ;  where  viewing  the  place  with  a  heavy  kind  of  delight, 
and  sometimes  casting  his  eyes  to  the  isle  ward,  he  called  his 
friendly  rival  the  pastor  Claius  unto  him ;  and  setting  first 
down  in  his  darkened  countenance  a  doleful  copy  of  what  he 
would  speak,  "O  my  Claius,"  said  he,  "hither  we  are  now  come 
to  pay  the  rent,  for  which  we  are  so  called  by  over-busy  remem- 
brance, remembrance,  restless  remembrance,  which  claims  not 
only  this  duty  of  us,  but  for  it  will  have  us  forget  ourselves.  I 
pray  you,  when  we  were  amid  our  flock,  and  that  of  other  shep- 
herds some  were  running  after  their  sheep,  strayed  beyond  their 
bounds ;  some  delighting  their  eyes  with  seeing  them  nibble 
upon  the  short  and  sweet  grass ;  some  medicining  their  sick  ewes ; 
some  setting  a  bell  for  an  ensign  of  a  sheepish  squadron ;  some 
with  more  leisure  inventing  new  games  of  exercising  their  bodies, 
and  sporting  their  wits ;  did  remembrance  grant  us  any  holiday, 
either  for  pastime  or  devotion,  nay  either  for  necessary  food,  or 
natural  rest,  but  that  still  it  forced  our  thoughts  to  work  upon 
this  place,  where  we  last  (alas  !  that  the  word  last  should  so  long 
last)  did  graze  our  eyes  upon  her  ever-flourishing  beauty,  did 
it  not  still  cry  within  us  ?     'Ah,  you  base-minded  wretches  !  —  are 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S  ARCADIA        89 

your  thoughts  so  deeply  bemired  in  the  trade  of  ordinary  worldhags, 
as  for  respect  of  gain  some  paltry  wool  may  yield  you,  to  let  so 
much  time  pass  without  knowing  perfectly  her  estate,  especially 
in  so  troublesome  a  season ;  to  leave  that  shore  unsaluted  from 
which  you  may  see  to  the  island  where  she  dwelleth ;  to  leave 
those  steps  unkissed  wherein  Urania  printed  the  farewell  of  all 
beauty  ? '  Yonder,  my  Claius,  Urania  lighted  ;  the  very  horse, 
methought,  bewailed  to  be  so  disburdened  :  and  as  for  thee, 
poor  Claius,  when  thou  wentest  to  help  her  down,  I  saw  reverence 
and  desire  so  divide  thee,  that  thou  didst  at  one  instant  both 
blush  and  quake,  and  instead  of  bearing  her  wert  ready  to  fall 
down  thyself.  There  she  sat  vouchsafing  my  cloak  (then  most 
gorgeous)  under  her :  at  yonder  rising  on  the  ground  she  turned 
herself,  looking  back  towards  her  wonted  abode,  and  because  of 
her  parting,  bearing  much  sorrow  in  her  eyes,  the  lightsomeness 
whereof  had  yet  so  natural  a  cheerfulness  that  it  made  even 
sorrow  seem  to  smile  ;  at  that  turning  she  spake  to  us  all,  opening 
the  cherry  of  her  Hps,  and  Lord  how  greedily  mine  ears  did  feed 
upon  the  sweet  words  she  uttered.  And  here  she  laid  her  hand 
over  thine  eyes,  when  she  saw  the  tears  springing  in  them,  as  if 
she  would  conceal  them  from  other,  and  yet  herself  feel  some 
of  thy  sorrow.  But  woe  is  me,  yonder,  yonder,  did  she  put 
her  foot  into  the  boat,  at  that  instant,  as  it  were,  dividing  her 
heavenly  beauty  between  the  earth  and  the  sea.  But  when  she 
was  embarked,  did  you  not  mark  how  the  winds  whistled  and 
the  seas  danced  for  joy,  how  the  sails  did  swell  with  pride,  and 
all  because  they  had  Urania  ?  O  Urania,  blessed  be  thou  Urania, 
the  sweetest  fairness,  and  fairest  sweetness  !" 

With  that  word  his  voice  brake  so  with  sobbing,  that  he  could 
say  no  farther  ;   and  Claius  thus  answered  : 

''Alas  my  Strephon,"  said  he,  "what  needs  this  score  to  reckon 
up  only  our  losses  ?  What  doubt  is  there,  but  that  the  sight  of 
this  place  doth  call  our  thoughts  to  appear  at  the  court  of  affec- 
tion, held  by  that  racking  steward  remembrance  ?  As  well 
may  sheep  forget  to  fear  when  they  spy  wolves,  as  we  can  miss 
such  fancies  when  we  see  any  place  made  happy  by  her  treading. 
Who  can  choose  that  saw  her,  but  think  where  she  stayed,  where 
she  walked,  where  she  turned,  where  she  spoke?     But  what  of 


90  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

all  this  ?  No,  no,  let  us  think  with  consideration,  and  consider 
with  acknowledging,  and  acknowledge  with  admiration,  and 
admire  with  love,  and  love  with  joy  in  the  midst  of  all  woes. 
Let  us  in  such  sort  think,  I  say,  that  our  poor  eyes  were  so 
enriched  as  to  behold  and  our  low  hearts  so  exalted  as  to  love  a 
maid  who  is  such,  that  as  the  greatest  thing  the  world  can  show 
is  her  beauty,  so  the  least  thing  that  may  be  praised  in  her  is  her 
beauty.  Certainly  as  her  eyelids  are  more  pleasant  to  behold 
than  two  white  kids  climbing  up  a  fair  tree,  and  browsing  on  its 
tenderest  branches,  and  yet  they  are  nothing  comparing  to 
the  day-shining  stars  contained  in  them ;  and  as  her  breath  is 
more  sweet  than  a  gentle  south-west  wind,  which  comes  creeping 
over  flowery  fields  and  shadowed  waters  in  the  extreme  heat  of 
summer ;  and  yet  is  nothing,  compared  to  the  honey-flowing 
speech  that  breath  doth  carry :  no  more  all  that  our  eyes  can 
see  of  her  (though  when  they  have  seen  her,  what  else  they 
shall  ever  see  is  but  dry  stubble  after  clover-grass)  is  to  be 
matched  with  the  flock  of  unspeakable  virtues  laid  up  dehght- 
fully  in  that  best  builded  fold." 

He  was  -going  on  with  his  praises,  but  Strephon  bade  him  stay 
and  look :  and  so  they  both  perceived  a  thing  which  floated, 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  bank  ;  but  rather  by  favorable 
working  of  the  sea  than  by  any  self-industry.  They  doubted 
awhile  what  it  should  be  till  it  was  cast  up  even  hard  before  them, 
at  which  time  they  fully  saw  that  it  was  a  man.  Whereupon 
running  for  pity's  sake  unto  him,  they  found  his  hands  (as  it 
should  appear,  constanter  friends  to  his  life  than  his  memory) 
fast  gripping  upon  the  edge  of  a  square  small  coffer  which  lay 
all  under  his  breast :  else  in  himself  no  show  of  life,  so  that  the 
board  seemed  to  be  but  a  bier  to  carry  him  to  the  land  to  his 
sepulchre.  So  drew  they  up  a  young  man  of  goodly  shape, 
and  well-pleasing  favor,  that  one  would  think  death  had  in  him 
a  lovely  countenance ;  and  that,  though  he  were  naked,  naked- 
ness was  to  him  an  apparel.  That  sight  increased  their  compas- 
sion, and  their  compassion  called  up  their  care ;  so  that  lifting 
his  feet  above  his  head,  making  a  great  deal  of  salt  water  come 
out  of  his  mouth,  they  laid  him  upon  some  of  their  garments, 
and  fell  to  rub  and  chafe  him,  till  they  brought  him  to  recover 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA         91 

both  breath,  the  servant,  and  warmth,  the  companion,  of  living. 
At  length  opening  his  eyes,  he  gave  a  great  groan  (a  doleful 
note,  but  a  pleasant  ditty,  for  by  that  they  found  not  only  life 
but  strength  of  hfe  in  him).  They  therefore  continued  on  their 
charitable  ofhce  until,  his  spirits  being  well  returned,  he  —  with- 
out so  much  as  thanking  them  for  their  pains  —  gat  up,  and 
looking  round  about  to  the  uttermost  limits  of  sight,  and  crying 
upon  the  name  of  Pyrocles,  nor  seeing  nor  hearing  cause  of  com- 
fort, "What,"  said  he,  "and  shall  Musidorus  live  after  Pyrocles's 
destruction  ?" 

Therewithal  he  offered  wilfully  to  cast  himself  into  the  sea : 
a  strange  sight  to  the  shepherds,  to  whom  it  seemed  that  .before 
being  in  appearance  dead,  yet  had  saved  his  life,  and  now  coming 
to  his  Hfe,  should  be  a  cause  to  procure  his  death ;  but  they  ran 
unto  him,  and  pulling  him  back  (then  too  feeble  for  them)  by 
force  stickled  that  unnatural  fray. 

"I  pray  you,"  said  he,  "honest  men,  what  such  right  have  you 
in  me,  as  not  to  suffer  me  to  do  with  myself  as  I  list,  and  what 
poUcy  have  you  to  bestow  a  benefit  where  it  is  counted  an  in- 
jury? 

They  hearing  him  speak  in  Greek  (which  was  their  natural 
language)  became  the  more  tender-hearted  towards  him,  and 
considering  by  his  calhng  and  looking  that  the  loss  of  some  dear 
friend  was  the  great  cause  of  his  sorrow,  told  him,  they  were  poor 
men  that  were  bound,  by  course  of  humanity,  to  prevent  so  great 
a  mischief ;  and  that  they  wished  him,  if  opinion  of  some  body's 
perishing  bred  such  desperate  anguish  in  him,  that  he  should  be 
comforted  by  his  own  proof,  who  had  lately  escaped  as  apparent 
danger  as  any  might  be. 

"No,  no,"  said  he,  "it  is  nor  for  me  to  attend  so  high  a  bliss- 
fulness  :  but  since  you  take  care  of  me,  I  pray  you  find  means 
that  some  barque  may  be  provided,  that  will  go  out  of  the  haven 
that  if  it  be  possible  we  may  find  the  body,  far,  far  too  precious 
food  for  fishes :  and  that  for  hire  I  have  within  this  casket  of 
value  sufficient  to  content  them." 


92  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

[The  shepherds,  doing  Musidorus's  bidding,  find  Pyrocles  alive;  but  just  as 
they  are  about  to  rescue  him,  a  pirate  galley  suddenly  appears  and  carries  him 
off.     They  then  continue  their  attentions  to  Musidorus.] 

"Now,  Sir,"  said  they,  "thus  for  ourselves  it  is;  we  are  in 
profession  but  shepherds,  and  in  this  country  of  Laconia  Httle 
better  than  strangers,  and  therefore  neither  in  skill  nor  abihty 
of  power  greatly  to  stead  you.  But  what  we  can  present  unto 
you  is  this  :  Arcadia,  of  which  country  we  are,  is  but  a  little  way 
hence ;  and  even  upon  the  next  confines  there  dwelleth  a  gentle- 
man, by  name  Kalander,  who  vouchsafest  much  favor  unto  us : 
a  man  who  for  his  hospitaUty  is  so  much  haunted,  that  no  news 
stir  but  comes  to  his  ears ;  for  his  upright  dealings  so  beloved  of 
his  neighbors,  that  he  hath  many  ever  ready  to  do  him  their 
utmost  service ;  and  by  the  great  good  will  our  prince  bears 
him  may  soon  obtain  to  use  of  his  name  and  credit,  which  hath 
a  principal  sway,  not  only  in  his  own  Arcadia,  but  in  all  these 
countries  of  Peloponnesus :  and  (which  is  worth  all)  all  these 
things  give  him  not  so  much  power,  as  his  nature  gives  him 
will  to  benefit :  so  that  it  seems  no  music  is  so  sweet  to  his  ears 
as  deserved  thanks.  To  him  we  will  bring  you,  and  there  you 
may  recover  again  your  health,  without  which  you  cannot  be 
able  to  make  any  diligent  search  for  your  friend ;  and  therefore 
you  must  labour  for  it.  Besides,  we  are  sure  the  comfort  of 
courtesy  and  ease  of  wise  counsel  shall  not  be  wanting." 

Musidorus  (who,  besides  he  was  merely  unacquainted  in  the 
country,  had  his  wits  astonished  with  sorrow)  gave  easy  consent 
to  that  from  which  he  saw  no  reason  to  disagree :  and  therefore 
(defraying  the  mariners  with  a  ring  bestowed  upon  them)  they 
took  their  journey  through  Laconia ;  Claius  and  Strephon  by 
course  carrying  his  chest  for  him,  Musidorus  only  bearing  in  his 
countenance  evident  marks  of  a  sorrowful  mind,  supported  with 
a  weak  body ;  which  they  perceiving,  and  knowing  that  the  vio- 
lence of  sorrow  is  not,  at  the  first,  to  be  striven  withal  (being  Hke 
a  mighty  beast  sooner  tamed  with  following  than  overthrown  by 
withstanding),  they  gave  way  unto  it,  for  that  day  and  the  next ; 
never  troubling  him,  either  with  asking  questions  or  finding  fault 
with  his  melancholy ;    but  rather  fitting  to  his  dolour,  dolorous 


THE   COUNTESS  OF   PEMBROKE'S  ARCADIA         93 

discourses  of  their  own  and  other  folks'  misfortunes.  Which 
speeches,  though  they  had  not  a  Hvely  entrance  to  his  senses 
shut  up  in  sorrow,  yet  hke  one  half  asleep  he  took  hold  of  much  of 
the  matter  spoken  unto  him,  for  that  a  man  may  say,  e'er  sorrow 
was  aware,  they  made  his  thoughts  bear  away  something  else 
beside  his  own  sorrow,  which  wrought  so  in  him,  that  at  length 
he  grew  content  to  mark  their  speeches,  then  to  marvel  at  such 
wit  in  shepherds,  after  to  hke  their  company,  and  lastly  to 
vouchsafe  conference :  so  that  the  third  day  after,  in  the  time 
that  the  morning  did  strew  roses  and  violets  in  the  heavenly  floor 
against  the  coming  of  the  sun,  the  nightingales  (striving  one  with 
the  other  which  could  in  most  dainty  variety  recount  their 
wrong-caused  sorrow)  made  them  put  off  their  sleep,  and  rising 
from  under  a  tree  (which  that  night  had  been  their  pavilion) 
they  went  on  their  journey,  which  by  and  by  welcomed  Musi- 
dorus's  eyes  (wearied  with  the  wasted  soil  of  Laconia)  with  de- 
hghtful  prospects. 

There  were  hills  which  garnished  their  proud  heights  with 
stately  trees ;  humble  valleys  whose  base  estate  seemed  com- 
forted with  the  refreshing  of  silver  rivers ;  meadows  enamelled 
with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleafing  flowers ;  thickets,  which,  being  hned 
with  most  pleasant  shade,  were  witnessed  so  too  by  the  cheerful 
disposition  of  many  well- tuned  birds ;  each  pasture  stored  with 
sheep  feeding  with  sober  security,  while  the  pretty  lambs  with 
bleating  oratory  craved  the  dams'  comfort ;  here  a  shepherd's 
boy  piping,  as  though  he  should  never  be  old ;  there  a  young 
shepherdess  knitting,  and  withal  singing,  and  it  seemed  that  her 
voice  comforted  her  hands  to  work  and  her  hands  kept  time  to 
her  voice-music.  As  for  the  houses  of  the  country  (for  many 
houses  came  under  their  eye)  they  were  all  scattered,  no  two 
being  one  by  the  other,  and  yet  not  so  far  off  as  that  it  barred 
mutual  succour :  a  show,  as  it  were,  of  an  accompanable  soli- 
tariness and  of  a  civil  wildness.  "I  pray  you,"  said  Musidorus, 
then  first  unsealing  his  long  silent  lips  :  "what  countries  be  these 
we  pass  through,  which  are  so  divers  in  show,  the  one  wanting 
no  store,  the  other  having  no  store  but  of  want  ?" 

*'The  country,"  answered  Claius,  "where  you  were  cast 
ashore  and  are  now  past  through  is  Laconia,  not  so  poor  by  the 


94  SIR  PHILIP    SIDNEY 

barrenness  of  the  soil  (though  in  itself  not  passing  fertile)  as 
by  a  civil  war,  which  being  these  two  years  within  the  bowels  of 
that  estate,  between  the  gentlemen  and  the  peasants  (by  them 
named  the  Helots),  hath  in  this  sort  as  it  were  disfigured  the  face 
of  nature,  and  made  it  so  unhospitable  as  now  you  have  found  it. 

"But  this  country  where  now  you  set  your  foot  is  Arcadia: 
and  even  hard  by  is  the  house  of  Kalander,  whither  we  lead  you. 
This  country  being  thus  decked  with  peace  and  (the  child  of 
peace)  good  husbandry,  these  houses  you  see  so  scattered  are  of 
men,  as  we  two  are,  that  live  upon  the  commodity  of  their  sheep ; 
and  therefore  in  the  di\dsion  of  the  Arcadian  estate  are  termed 
shepherds :  a  happy  people,  wanting  Uttle,  because  they  desire 
not  much." 

"What  cause  then,"  said  Musidorus,  "made  you  venture  to 
leave  this  sweet  hfe,  and  put  yourself  in  yonder  unpleasant 
and  dangerous  realm?"  "Guarded  with  poverty,"  answered 
Strephon,  "and  guided  with  love."  "But  now,"  said  Claius, 
"since  it  hath  pleased  you  to  ask  anything  of  us,  whose  baseness  is 
such  as  the  very  knowledge  is  darkness,  give  us  leave  to  know 
something  of  you,  and  of  the  young  man  you  so  much  lament,  that 
at  least  we  may  be  the  better  instructed  to  inform  Kalander,  and 
he  the  better  know  how  to  proportion  his  entertainment." 

Musidorus,  according  to  the  agreement  between  Pyrocles  and 
him  to  alter  their  names,  answered  that  he  called  himself  Palla- 
dius  and  his  friend  Daiphantus  ;  "but  till  I  have  him  again,"  said 
he,  "I  am  indeed  nothing,  and  therefore  my  story  is  nothing; 
his  entertainment  (since  so  good  a  man  he  is)  cannot  be  so  low  as 
I  count  my  estate ;  and  in  sum,  the  sum  of  all  his  courtesy  may 
be  to  help  me  by  some  means  to  seek  my  friend." 

They  perceived  he  was  not  willing  to  open  himself  farther,  and 
therefore  without  farther  questioning  brought  him  to  the  house ; 
about  which  they  might  see  (with  fit  consideration  both  of  the 
air,  and  the  prospect,  and  the  nature  of  the  ground)  all  such 
necessary  additions  to  a  great  house  as  might  well  show  Kalander 
knew  that  provision  is  the  foundation  of  hospitality,  and  thrift 
the  fuel  of  magnificence.  The  house  itself  was  built  of  fair  and 
strong  stone,  not  affecting  so  much  any  extraordinary  kind  of 
fineness  as  an  honorable  representing  of  a  firm  stateHness.     The 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA         95 

lights,  doors  and  stairs  rather  directed  to  the  use  of  the  guest 
than  to  the  eye  of  the  artificer  ;  and  yet  as  the  one  chiefly  heeded, 
so  the  other  not  neglected  ;  each  place  handsome  without  curiosity, 
and  homely  without  loathsomeness ;  not  so  dainty  as  not  to  be 
trod  on,  nor  yet  flubbered  up  with  good-fellowship;  all  more 
lasting  than  beautiful,  but  that  the  consideration  of  the  ex- 
ceeding lastingness  made  the  eye  believe  it  was  exceeding 
beautiful.  The  servants  not  so  many  in  number,  as  cleanly  in 
apparel  and  serviceable  in  behaviour,  testifying  even  in  their 
countenances  that  their  master  took  as  well  care  to  be  served 
as  of  them  that  did  serve.  One  of  them  was  forthwith  ready  to 
welcome  the  shepherds  as  men  whom  though  they  were  poor 
their  master  greatly  favoured  ;  and  understanding  by  them  that 
the  young  man  with  them  was  much  to  be  accounted  of,  for  that 
they  had  seen  tokens  of  more  than  common  greatness,  howso- 
ever now  eclipsed  with  fortune,  he  ran  to  his  master,  who  came 
presently  forth,  and  pleasantly  welcoming  the  shepherds,  but 
especially  applying  himself  to  Musidorus,  Strephon  privately 
told  him  all  what  he  knew  of  him,  and  particularly  that  he  found 
this  stranger  was  loth  to  be  known. 

"No,"  said  Kalander  speaking  aloud,  "I  am  no  herald  to  in- 
quire of  men's  pedigrees  ;  it  sufliceth  me  if  I  know  their  virtues  ; 
which  (if  this  young  man's  face  be  not  a  false  witness)  do  better 
apparel  his  mind,  than  you  have  done  his  body."  While  he  was 
thus  speaking,  there  came  a  boy  in  show  like  a  merchant's  prentice, 
who,  taking  Strephon  by  the  sleeve  delivered  him  a  letter, 
written  jointly  both  to  him  and  Claius,  from  Urania,  which  they 
no  sooner  had  read  but  that  with  short  leave  taking  of  Kalander 
(who  quickly  guessed  and  smiled  at  the  matter)  and  once  again 
(though  hastily)  recommending  the  young  man  unto  him,  they 
went  away,  leaving  Musidorus  even  loth  to  part  with  them,  for 
the  good  conversation  he  had  had  of  them  and  obHgation  he 
accounted  himself  tied  in  unto  them  :  and  therefore,  they  deHver- 
ing  his  chest  unto  him,  he  opened  it,  and  would  have  presented 
them  with  two  very  rich  jewels,  but  they  absolutely  refused  them, 
telUng  him  that  they  were  more  than  enough  rewarded  in  the 
knowing  of  him,  and  without  hearkening  unto  a  reply  (like  men 
whose  hearts  disdained  all  desires  but  one)  gat  speedily  away,  as 


96  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

if  the  letter  had  brought  wings  to  make  them  fly.  But  by  that 
sight  Kalander  soon  judged  that  his  guest  was  of  no  mean  calling ; 
and  therefore  the  more  respectfully  entertaining  him,  Musidorus 
found  his  sickness  (which  the  fight,  the  sea  and  late  travel  had 
laid  upon  him)  grow  greatly,  so  that  fearing  some  sudden  acci- 
dent, he  delivered  the  chest  to  Kalander,  which  was  full  of  most 
precious  stones  gorgeously  and  cunningly  set  in  divers  manners, 
desiring  him  he  would  keep  those  trifles,  and  if  he  died,  he  would 
bestow  so  much  of  it  as  was  needful,  to  find  out  and  redeem  a 
young  man,  naming  himself  Daiphantus,  as  then  in  the  hands  of 
Laconian  pirates. 

But  Kalander  seeing  him  faint  more  and  more,  with  careful 
speed  conveyed  him  to  the  most  commodious  lodging  in  his  house, 
where  being  possessed  with  an  extreme  burning  fever  he  continued 
some  while  with  no  great  hope  of  life  ;  but  youth  at  length  got  the 
victory  of  sickness,  so  that  in  six  weeks  the  excellence  of  his 
returned  beauty  was  a  credible  ambassador  of  his  health,  to  the 
great  joy  of  Kalander,  who,  as  in  his  time  he  had  by  certain 
friends  that  dwelt  near  the  sea  in  Missenia  set  forth  a  ship  and  a 
galley  to  seek  and  succour  Daiphantus,  so  at  home  did  he  omit 
nothing  which  he  thought  might  either  profit  or  gratify  Pal- 
ladius.  .  .  . 

But  Palladius  having  gotten  his  health,  and  only  staying  there 
to  be  in  place  where  he  might  hear  answer  of  the  ships  set  forth, 
Kalander  one  afternoon  led  him  abroad  to  a  well-arrayed  ground 
he  had  behind  his  house,  which  he  thought  to  show  him  before 
his  going,  as  the  place  himself  more  than  in  any  other  delighted. 
The  backside  of  the  house  was  neither  field,  garden  nor  orchard  ; 
or  rather  it  was  both  field,  garden  and  orchard :  for  as  soon  as 
the  descending  of  the  stairs  had  delivered  them  down,  they 
came  into  a  place  cunningly  set  with  trees  of  the  most  taste- 
pleasing  fruits :  but  scarcely  had  they  taken  that  into  their  con- 
sideration before  they  were  suddenly  stept  into  a  delicate  green ; 
of  each  side  of  the  green  a  thicket,  and  behind  the  thickets  again 
new  beds  of  flowers,  which  being  under  the  trees  the  trees  were 
to  them  a  paviilion,  and  they  to  the  trees  a  mosaical  floor,  so 
that  it  seemed  that  Art  therein  would  needs  be  delightful,  by 
counterfeiting  his  enemy  Error  and  making  order  in  confusion. 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA        97 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  place  was  a  fair  pond  whose  shaking 
crystal  was  a  perfect  mirror  to  all  the  other  beauties,  so  that  it 
bear  show  of  two  gardens;  one  in  deed,  the  other  in  shadows. 
And  in  one  of  the  thickets  was  a  fine  fountain  made  thus :  a 
naked  Venus  of  white  marble,  wherein  the  graver  had  used  such 
cunning  that  the  natural  blue  veins  of  the  marble  were  framed  in 
fit  places  to  set  forth  the  beautiful  veins  of  her  body.  At  her 
breast  she  had  her  babe  ^^neas,  who  seemed,  having  begun  to 
suck,  to  leave  that  to  look  upon  her  fair  eyes,  which  smiled  at 
the  babe's  folly,  meanwhile  the  breast  running. 

Hard  by  was  a  house  of  pleasure  built  for  a  summer-retiring 
place ;  whither  Kalander  leading  him  he  found  a  square  room 
full  of  delightful  pictures  made  by  the  most  excellent  workmen  of 
Greece.  There  was  Diana  when  Actaeon  saw  her  bathing ; 
in  whose  cheeks  the  painter  had  set  such  a  colour  as  was  mixed 
between  shame  and  disdain,  and  one  of  her  foohsh  nymphs,  who 
weeping,  and  withal  lowering,  one  might  see  the  workman 
meant  to  set  forth  tears  of  anger.  In  another  table  was  Atalanta, 
the  posture  of  whose  limbs  was  so  lively  expressed,  that  if  the 
eyes  were  only  judges,  as  they  be  the  only  seers,  one  would  have 
sworn  the  very  picture  had  run.  Besides  many  more,  as  of 
Helena,  Omphale,  lole :  but  in  none  of  them  all  beauty  seemed 
to  speak  so  much  as  in  a  large  table,  which  contained  a  comely 
old  man,  with  a  lady  of  middle-age,  but  of  excellent  beauty,  and 
more  excellent  would  have  been  deemed,  but  that  there  stood 
between  a  young  maid,  whose  wonderfulness  took  away  all 
beauty  from  her,  but  that  which  it  might  seem  she  gave  her  back 
again  by  her  very  shadow.  And  such  dift'erence  (being  known 
that  it  did  indeed  counterfeit  a  person  living)  was  there  between 
her  and  all  the  other,  though  goddesses,  that  it  seemed  the 
skill  of  the  painter  bestowed  on  the  other  new  beauty,  but 
that  the  beauty  of  her  bestowed  new  skill  on  the  painter. 
Though  he  thought  inquisitiveness  an  uncomely  guest  he  could 
not  choose  but  ask  who  she  was,  that  bearing  show  of  one  being 
indeed  could  with  natural  gifts  go  beyond  the  reach  of  invention. 
Kalander  answered,  that  it  was  made  by  Philoclea,  the  younger 
daughter  of  his  prince,  who  also  with  his  wife  were  contained 
in  that  table :    the  painter  meaning  to  represent  the  present 


98  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

condition  of  the  young  lady,  who  stood  watched  by  an  over- 
curious  eye  of  her  parents ;  and  that  he  would  also  have 
drawn  her  eldest  sister,  esteemed  her  match  for  beauty,  in  her 
shepherdish  attire,  but  that  rude  clown  her  guardian  would  not 
suffer  it ;  neither  durst  he  ask  leave  of  the  prince,  for  fear  of 
suspicion.  Palladius  perceived  that  the  matter  was  wrapped  up 
in  some  secrecy,  and  therefore  would,  for  modesty,  demand  no 
farther ;  but  yet  his  countenance  could  not  but  with  dumb  elo- 
quence desire  it.  Which  Kalander  perceiving,  "Well,"  said  he, 
"my  dear  guest,  I  know  your  mind,  and  I  will  satisfy  it :  neither 
will  I  do  it  Uke  a  niggardly  answer,  going  no  farther  than  the 
bounds  of  the  question ;  but  I  will  discover  unto  you  as  well 
that  wherein  my  knowledge  is  common  with  others,  as  that  which 
by  extraordinary  means  is  delivered  unto  me  ;  knowing  so  much 
in  you  (though  not  long  acquainted)  that  I  shall  find  your  ears 
faithful  treasurers."  So  then  sitting  down  in  two  chairs,  and 
sometimes  casting  his  eye  to  the  picture,  he  thus  spake  : 

"This  country  Arcadia  among  all  the  provinces  of  Greece,  hath 
ever  been  had  in  singular  reputation  ;  partly  for  the  sweetness  of 
the  air  and  other  natural  benefits,  but  principally  for  the  well- 
tempered  minds  of  the  people  who  (finding  the  shining  title  of 
glory,  so  much  affected  by  other  nations,  doth  help  little  to  the 
happiness  of  life)  are  the  only  people  which,  as  by  their  justice 
and  providence  give  neither  cause  nor  hope  to  their  neighbors  to 
annoy,  so  are  they  not  stirred  with  false  praise  to  trouble  others' 
quiet,  thinking  it  a  small  reward  for  the  wasting  of  their  own 
lives  in  ravening,  that  their  posterity  should  long  after  say  they 
had  done  so.  Even  the  muses  seem  to  approve  their  good 
determination  by  choosing  this  country  for  their  chief  repairing 
place,  and  by  bestowing  their  perfections  so  largely  here  that 
the  very  shepherds  have  their  fancies  hfted  to  so  high  conceits 
that  the  learned  of  other  nations  are  content  both  to  borrow  their 
names  and  imitate  their  cunning. 

"Here  dwelleth  and  reigneth  this  prince  (whose  picture  you 
see)  by  name  Basilius ;  a  prince  of  sufficient  skill  to  govern  so 
quiet  a  country,  where  the  good  minds  of  the  former  princes  had 
set  down  good  laws,  and  the  well-bringing  up  of  the  people  doth 
serve  as  a  most  sure  bond  to  hold  them.     But  to  be  plain  with 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA 


99 


you,  he  excels  in  nothing  so  much  as  the  jealous  love  of  his 
people,  wherein  he  does  not  only  pass  all  his  foregoers  but,  as  I 
think,  all  the  princes  living.  Whereof  the  cause  is,  that  though  he 
exceed  not  in  the  virtues  which  get  admiration,  as  depth  of  wis- 
dom, height  of  courage,  and  largeness  of  magnificence,  yet  he  is 
notable  in  those  which  stir  affection,  as  truth  of  word,  meekness, 
courtesy,  mercifulness,  and  Hberty. 

"He  being  already  well  stricken  in  years,  married  a  young 
princess,  named  Gynecia,  daughter  to  the  king  of  Cyprus,  of 
notable  beauty,  as  by  her  picture  you  see  :  a  woman  of  great  wit, 
and  in  truth  of  more  princely  virtues  than  her  husband  ;  of  most 
unspotted  chastity ;  but  of  so  working  a  mind  and  so  vehement 
spirits  that  a  man  may  say,  it  was  happy  that  she  took  a  good 
course  for  otherwise  it  would  have  been  terrible. 

"Of  these  two  are  brought  into  the  world  two  daughters,  so 
beyond  measure  excellent  in  all  the  gifts  alloted  to  reasonable 
creatures  that  we  may  think  that  they  were  born  to  show  that 
nature  is  no  stepmother  to  that  sex,  how  much  soever  some  men 
(sharp-witted  only  in  evil  speaking)  have  sought  to  disgrace 
them.  The  elder  is  named  Pamela ;  by  many  men  not  deemed 
inferior  to  her  sister :  for  my  part,  when  I  marked  them  both, 
methought  there  was  (if  at  least  such  perfections  may  receive 
the  word  of  more)  more  sweetness  in  Philoclea  but  more  majesty 
in  Pamela :  methought  love  played  in  Philoclea's  eyes,  and 
threatened  in  Pamela's ;  methought  Philoclea's  beauty  only 
persuaded,  but  so  persuaded  as  all  hearts  must  yield ;  Pamela's 
beauty  used  violence,  and  such  violence  as  no  heart  could  resist. 
And  it  seems  that  such  proportion  is  between  their  minds : 
Philoclea  so  bashful,  as  though  her  excellencies  had  stolen  into 
her  ere  she  was  aware  ;  so  humble,  that  she  will  put  all  pride  out 
of  countenance;  in  sum,  such  proceeding  as  will  stir  hope  but 
teach  hope  good  manners.  Pamela  of  high  thoughts  who  avoids 
not  pride  with  not  knowing  her  excellencies,  but  by  making 
that  one  if  her  excellencies  to  be  void  of  pride ;  her  mother's 
wisdom,  greatness,  nobihty,  but  (if  I  can  guess  aright)  knit  with 
a  more  constant  temper.  Now  then,  our  BasiHus  being  so 
pubhcly  happy  as  to  be  a  prince,  and  so  happy  in  that  happiness 
as  to  be  a  beloved  prince ;    and  so  in  his  private  estate  blessed 


lOO  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

as  to  have  so  excellent  a  wife  and  so  over-excellent  children, 
hath  of  late  taken  a  course  which  yet  makes  him  more  spoken  of 
than  all  these  blessings.  For  having  made  a  journey  to  Delphos, 
and  safely  returned,  within  short  space,  he  brake  up  his  court, 
and  retired  himself,  his  wife  and  children,  into  a  certain  forest 
hereby  which  he  called  his  desert ;  wherein  (besides  an  house 
appointed  for  stables  and  lodgings  for  certain  persons  of  mean 
calling  who  do  all  household  services)  he  hath  builded  two  fine 
lodges :  in  the  one  of  them  himself  remains  with  his  younger 
daughter  Philoclea  (which  was  the  cause  they  three  were  matched 
together  in  this  picture)  without  having  any  other  creature 
living  in  that  lodge  with  him. 

**  Which  though  it  be  strange,  yet  not  strange  as  the  course 
he  hath  taken  with  the  princess  Pamela  whom  he  hath  placed 
in  the  other  lodge  :  but  how  think  you  accompanied  ?  Truly 
with  none  other  than  one  Dametas,  the  most  arrant  doltish 
clown  that  I  think  ever  was  without  the  privilege  of  a  bauble, 
with  his  wife  Miso  and  his  daughter  Mopsa,  in  whom  no  wit 
can  devise  anything  wherein  they  may  pleasure  her  but  to 
exercise  her  patience  and  to  serve  for  a  foil  of  her  perfections. 
This  loutish  clown  is  such  that  you  never  saw  so  ill-favoured  a 
visor ;  his  behaviour  such  that  he  is  beyond  the  degree  of  ridicu- 
lous ;  and  for  his  apparel,  even  as  I  would  wish  him  :  Miso  his  wife 
so  handsome  a  beldam,  that  only  her  face  and  her  splayfoot  have 
made  her  accused  for  a  witch ;  only  one  good  point  she  hath, 
having  a  forward  mind  in  a  wretched  body.  Between  these  two 
personages  (who  never  agree  in  any  humour,  but  in  disagreeing) 
is  issued  forth  Mistress  Mopsa,^  a  fit  woman  to  participate  of 
both  their  perfections :  but  because  a  pleasant  fellow  of  my  ac- 
quaintance set  forth  her  praises  in  verse,  I  will  only  repeat  them, 
and  spare  mine  own  tongue,  since  she  goes  for  a  woman.  .  .  . 

1  Mopsa  is  one  of  the  most  dearly  defined  types  in  the  book ;  her  clownishness  is  con- 
stantly emphasized  by  such  descriptions  as  these:  "With  that  he  imprisoned  his  look  for  a 
while  upon  Mopsa,  who  thereupon  fell  into  a  very  wide  smiling."  Again,  "He  looked,  and 
saw  that  Mopsa  indeed  sat  swallowing  the  sleep  with  open  mouth,  making  such  a  noise 
withal,  as  nobody  could  lay  the  stealing  of  a  nap  to  her  charge."  .Again,  "He  would  have 
said  farther,  but  Pamela  calling  aloud  Mopsa,  she  suddenly  started  up,  staggering,  and 
rubbing  her  eyes,  ran  first  out  of  the  door,  and  then  back  to  them,  till  at  length,  being  fully 
come  to  her  little  self,  she  asked  Pamela  why  she  had  called  her."  (The  "Arcadia"  with 
introduction  by  E.  A.  Baker,  London  and  N.  Y.,  n.  d.,  pages  152  and  177.) 


THE   COUNTESS  OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA       loi 

The  beginning  of  his  credit  was  by  the  prince's  straying  out  of 
the  way  one  time  he  hunted,  where  meeting  this  fellow,  and 
asking  him  the  way,  and  so  falling  into  other  questions,  he  found 
some  of  his  answers  not  unsensible,  and  all  uttered  with  such 
rudeness,  which  he  interpreted  plainness  (though  there  be  a 
great  difference  between  them)  that  Basilius  conceiving  a  sudden 
delight,  took  him  to  his  court,  with  apparent  show  of  his  good 
opinion :  where  the  flattering  courtier  had  no  sooner  taken  the 
prince's  mind,  but  that  there  were  straight  reasons  to  confirm 
the  prince's  doing,  and  shadows  of  virtues  found  for  Dametas. 
His  silence  grew  wit,  his  bluntness  integrity,  his  beastly  ignorance 
virtuous  simplicity,  and  the  prince  (according  to  the  nature  of 
great  persons,  in  love  with  what  he  had  done  himself)  fancied 
that  his  weakness  with  his  presence  would  be  much  mended. 
And  so  like  a  creature  of  his  own  making,  he  liked  him  more  and 
more ;  and  thus  having  first  given  him  the  office  of  principal 
herdsman;  lastly,  since  he  took  this  strange  determination, 
he  hath  in  a  manner  put  the  life  of  himself  and  his  children  into 
his  hands.  Which  authority  (like  too  great  a  sail  for  so  small  a 
boat)  doth  so  overway  poor  Dametas,  that,  if  before  he  was  a  good 
fool  in  a  chamber,  he  might  be  allowed  it  now  in  a  comedy,  so 
as  I  doubt  me  (I  fear  me  indeed)  my  master  will  in  the  end  (with 
his  cost)  find  that  his  office  is  not  to  make  men,  but  to  use  men 
as  men  are,  no  more  than  a  horse  will  be  taught  to  hunt,  or  an  ass 
to  manage.  But  in  sooth  I  am  afraid  I  have  given  your  ears  too 
great  a  surfeit  with  gross  discourses  of  that  heavy  piece  of  flesh. 
But  the  zealous  grief  I  conceive  to  see  so  great  an  error  in  my 
lord  hath  made  me  bestow  more  words  than  I  confess  so  base  a 
subject  deserveth." 


[The   Story  of  Argalus  and  Parthenia] 

[An  Incident  told  to  Palladius  by  Kalander's  Steward.] 

"My  Lord,"  said  he,  ''when  our  good  king  Basilius,  with  better 
success  than  expectation,  took  to  wife  (even  in  his  more  than 
decaying  years)   the  fair  young  princess  Gynecia,  there  came 


I02  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

with  her  a  young  lord,  cousin  german  to  herself,  named  Argalus, 
led  hither  partly  by  the  love  and  honour  of  his  noble  kinswoman, 
partly  with  the  humour  of  youth,  which  ever  thinks  that  good, 
whose  goodness  he  sees  not.  And  in  this  court  he  received  so 
good  an  increase  of  knowledge,  that  after  some  years  spent,  he 
so  manifested  a  virtuous  mind  in  all  his  actions,  that  Arcadia 
gloried  such  a  plant  was  transported  unto  them,  being  a  gentle- 
man indeed  most  rarely  accomphshed,  excellently  learned,  but 
without  all  vain  glory  :  friendly  without  factiousness ;  vaHant, 
so  as  for  my  part  I  think  the  earth  hath  no  man  that  hath  done 
more  heroical  acts  than  he.  My  master's  son  Clitophon  being 
a  young  gentleman  as  of  great  birth  so  truly  of  good  nature  and 
one  that  can  see  good  and  love  it,  haunted  more  the  company  of 
this  worthy  Argalus,  than  of  any  other.  About  two  years  since,  it 
so  fell  out  that  he  brought  him  to  a  great  lady's  house,  sister  to  my 
master,  who  had  with  her  her  only  daughter,  the  fair  Parthenia, 
fair  indeed  (fame,  I  think,  itself  not  daring  to  call  any  fairer, 
if  it  be  not  Helena,  queen  of  Corinth,  and  the  two  incomparable 
sisters  of  Arcadia)  and  that  which  made  her  fairness  much  the 
fairer  was,  that  it  was  but  a  fair  ambassador  of  a  most  fair  mind  ; 
full  of  wit,  and  a  wit  which  delighted  more  to  judge  itself  than 
to  show  itself  :  her  speech  being  as  rare,  as  precious  ;  her  silence 
without  fullness  ;  her  modesty  without  affectation ;  her  shame- 
facedness  without  ignorance :  in  sum,  one  that  to  praise  well, 
one  must  first  set  down  with  himself  what  it  is  to  be  excellent : 
for  so  she  is. 

"1  think  you  think  that  these  perfections  meeting  could 
not  choose  but  find  one  another,  and  delight  in  what  they  found  ; 
for  likeness  of  manners  is  likely  in  reason  to  draw  likeness  of 
affection ;  men's  actions  do  not  always  cross  with  reason :  to 
be  short,  it  did  so  indeed.  They  loved,  although  for  a  while 
the  fire  thereof  (hope's  wings  being  cut  off)  were  blown  by  the 
bellows  of  despair  upon  this  occasion. 

"There  had  been  a  good  while  before,  and  so  continued,  a  suitor 
to  this  same  lady,  a  great  noble  man,  though  of  Laconia,  yet  near 
neighbor  to  Parthenia's  mother,  named  Demagoras ;  a  man 
mighty  in  riches  and  power,  and  proud  thereof,  stubbornly  stout, 
loving  nobody  but  himself,   and,   for  his  own  delight's  sake, 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA       103 

Parthenia :  and  pursuing  vehemently  his  desire,  his  riches  had 
so  gilded  over  his  other  imperfections  that  the  old  lady  had 
given  her  consent;  and  using  a  mother's  authority  upon  her 
fair  daughter  had  made  her  yield  thereunto,  not  because  she 
liked  her  choice,  but  because  her  obedient  mind  had  not  yet 
taken  upon  it  to  make  choice.  And  the  day  of  their  assurance 
drew  near,  when  my  young  lord  Clitophon  brought  this  noble 
Argalus,  perchance  principally  to  see  so  rare  a  sight,  as  Parthenia 
by  all  well-judging  eyes  was  judged. 

"But  though  few  days  were  before  the  time  of  assurance  ap- 
pointed, yet  love,  that  saw  he  had  a  great  journey  to  make  in 
short  time,  hasted  so  himself  that  before  her  word  could  tie  her 
to  Demagoras,  her  heart  had  vowed  her  to  Argalus  with  so 
grateful  a  receipt  of  mutual  affection  that  if  she  desired  above 
all  things  to  have  Argalus,  Argalus  feared  nothing  but  to  miss 
Parthenia.  And  now  Parthenia  had  learned  both  liking  and  mis- 
liking,  loving  and  loathing ;  and  out  of  passion  began  to  take  the 
authority  of  judgment ;  insomuch  that  when  the  time  came  that 
Demagoras  (full  of  proud  joy)  thought  to  receive  the  gift  of  herself ; 
she,  with  words  of  refusal  (though  with  tears  showing  she  was  sorry 
she  must  refuse)  assured  her  mother  that  she  would  first  be  bedded 
in  her  grave  than  wedded  to  Demagoras.  The  change  was  no 
more  strange  than  unpleasant  to  the  mother  who  being  deter- 
minately  (lest  I  should  say  of  a  great  lady,  wilfully)  bent  to 
marry  her  to  Demagoras,  tried  all  ways,  which  a  witty  and  hard- 
hearted mother  could  use  upon  so  humble  a  daughter  in  whom 
the  only  resisting  power  was  love.  But  the  more  she  assaulted, 
the  more  she  taught  Parthenia  to  defend  ;  and  the  more  Parthenia 
defended,  the  more  she  made  her  mother  obstinate  in  the  assault : 
who  at  length  finding  that  Argalus  standing  between  them,  was 
it  that  most  eclipsed  her  affection  from  shining  on  Demagoras, 
she  sought  all  means  how  to  remove  him,  so  much  the  more  as 
he  manifested  himself  an  unremovable  suitor  to  her  daughter: 
first  by  employing  him  in  as  many  dangerous  enterprises  as 
ever  the  evil  step-mother  Juno  recommended  to  the  famous 
Hercules :  but  the  more  his  virtue  was  tried,  the  more  pure  it 
grew,  while  all  the  things  she  did  to  overthrow  him,  did  set  him 
up  upon  the  height  of  honour ;  enough  to  have  moved  her  heart, 


I04  SIR   PHILIP    SIDNEY 

especially  to  a  man  every  way  so  worthy  as  Argalus ;  but  strug- 
gling against  all  reason,  because  she  would  have  her  will,  and 
shew  her  authority  in  matching  her  with  Demagoras,  the  more 
virtuous  Argalus  was  the  more  she  hated  him,  thinking  herself 
conquered  in  his  conquests,  and  therefore  still  employing  him 
in  more  and  more  dangerous  attempts :  in  the  meanwhile  she 
used  all  the  extremities  possible  upon  her  fair  daughter  to  make 
her  give  over  herself  to  her  direction.  But  it  was  hard  to  judge 
whether  he  in  doing,  or  she  in  suffering,  shewed  greater  constancy 
of  affection  :  for,  as  to  Argalus  the  world  sooner  wanted  occasions 
than  he  valor  to  go  through  them :  so  to  Parthenia  malice 
sooner  ceased  than  her  unchanged  patience.  Lastly,  by  treasons 
Demagoras  and  she  would  have  made  way  with  Argalus,  but  he 
with  providence  and  courage  so  past  over  all  that  the  mother 
took  such  a  spiteful  grief  at  it  that  her  heart  brake  withal,  and 
she  died. 

"But  then  Demagoras  assuring  himself  that  now  Parthenia 
was  her  own  she  would  never  be  his,  and  receiving  as  much  by 
her  own  determinate  answer,  not  more  desiring  his  own  happiness, 
than  envying  Argalus,  whom  he  saw  with  narrow  eyes,  even 
ready  to  enjoy  the  perfection  of  his  desires,  strengthening  his 
conceit  with  all  the  mischievous  counsels  which  disdained  love 
and  envious  pride  could  give  unto  him,  the  wicked  wretch 
(taking  a  time  that  Argalus  was  gone  to  his  country  to  fetch 
some  of  his  principal  friends  to  honour  the  marriage  which 
Parthenia  had  most  joyfully  consented  unto)  the  wicked  Demag- 
oras, I  say,  desiring  to  speak  with  her,  with  unmerciful  force 
(her  weak  arms  in  vain  resisting)  rubbed  all  over  her  face  a 
most  horrible  poison :  the  effect  whereof  was  such,  that  never 
leper  looked  more  ugly  than  she  did :  which  done,  having  his 
men  and  horses  ready,  departed  away  in  spite  of  her  servants,  as 
ready  to  revenge  as  could  be,  in  such  an  unexpected  mischief. 
But  the  abominableness  of  this  fact  being  come  to  my  Lord 
Kalander,  he  made  such  means,  both  by  our  king's  intercession 
and  his  own,  that  by  the  king  and  senate  of  Lacedaemon,  Demag- 
oras was,  upon  pain  of  death,  banished  the  country :  who 
hating  the  punishment,  where  he  should  have  hated  the  fault, 
joined  himself,  with  all  the  power  he  could  make,  unto  the  Helots, 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA       105 

lately  in  rebellion  against  that  state :  and  they  (glad  to  have  a 
man  of  such  authority  among  them)  made  him  their  general, 
and  under  him  have  committed  divers  the  most  outrageous 
villanies  that  a  base  multitude  (full  of  desperate  revenge)  can 
imagine. 

"But  within  a  while  after  this  pitiful  fact  committed  upon  Par- 
thenia,  Argalus  returned  (poor  Gentleman)  having  her  fair 
image  in  his  heart,  and  already  promising  his  eyes  the  uttermost 
of  his  felicity  when  they  (nobody  else  daring  to  tell  it  him)  were 
the  first  messengers  to  themselves  of  their  own  misfortune.  I 
mean  not  to  move  passion  with  telling  you  the  grief  of  both-, 
when  he  knew  her,  for  at  first  he  did  not ;  nor  at  first  knowledge 
could  possibly  have  virtue's  aid  so  ready,  as  not  even  weakly  to 
lament  the  loss  of  such  a  jewel,  so  much  the  more,  as  that  skilful 
men  in  that  art  assured  it  was  unrecoverable :  but  within  a 
while,  truth  of  love  (which  still  held  the  first  face  in  his  memory) 
a  virtuous  constancy,  and  even  a  delight  to  be  constant,  faith 
given,  and  inward  worthiness  shining  through  the  foulest  mists, 
took  so  full  hold  of  the  noble  Argalus,  that  not  only  in  such  com- 
fort which  witty  arguments  may  bestow  upon  adversity,  but  even 
with  the  most  abundant  kindness  that  an  eye-ravished  lover 
can  express,  he  laboured  both  to  drive  the  extremity  of  sorrow 
from  her,  and  to  hasten  the  celebration  of  their  marriage : 
whereunto  he  unfeignedly  shewed  himself  no  less  cheerfully 
earnest  than  if  she  had  never  been  disinherited  of  that  goodly 
portion  which  nature  had  so  liberally  bequeathed  unto  her; 
and  for  that  cause  deferred  his  intended  revenge  upon  Demag- 
oras,  because  he  might  continually  be  in  her  presence,  shewing 
more  humble  serviceableness  and  joy  to  content  her  than  ever 
before. 

"But  as  he  gave  this  rare  example,  not  to  be  hoped  for  of  any 
other,  but  of  another  Argalus,  so  of  the  other  side,  she  took  as 
strange  a  course  in  affection  :  for  where  she  'desired  to  enjoy  him 
more  than  to  hve  yet  did  she  overthrow  both  her  own  desire 
and  his,  and  in  no  sort  would  yield  to  marry  him  :  with  a  strange 
encounter  of  love's  affects  and  effects ;  that  he  by  an  affection 
sprung  from  excessive  beauty  should  delight  in  horrible  foulness  ; 
and  she  of  a  vehement  desire  to  have  him  should  kindly  build  a 


io6  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

resolution  never  to  have  him ;  for  truth  it  is,  that  so  in  heart 
she  loved  him,  as  she  could  not  find  in  her  heart  he  should  be 
tied  to  what  was  unworthy  of  his  presence. 

"Truly,  Sir,  a  very  good  orator  might  have  a  fair  field  to  use 
eloquence  in,  if  he  did  but  only  repeat  the  lamentable,  and  truly 
affectionate  speeches,  while  he  conjured  her  by  the  remembrance 
of  her  affection,  and  true  oaths  of  his  own  aft'ection,  not  to  make 
him  so  unhappy,  as  to  think  he  had  not  only  lost  her  face,  but 
her  heart;  that  her  face,  when  it  was  fairest,  had  been  but  a 
marshal  to  lodge  the  love  of  her  in  his  mind,  which  now  was  so 
well  placed  that  it  needed  no  further  help  of  any  outward  har- 
binger ;  beseeching  her,  even  with  tears,  to  know  that  his  love 
was  not  so  superficial  as  to  go  no  further  than  the  skin,  which 
yet  now  to  him  was  most  fair  since  it  was  hers  :  how  could  he  be 
so  ungrateful  as  to  love  her  the  less  for  that  which  she  had  only 
received  for  his  sake ;  that  he  never  beheld  it,  but  therein  he 
saw  the  loveliness  of  her  love  towards  him ;  protesting  unto  her 
that  he  would  never  take  joy  of  his  life  if  he  might  not  enjoy  her, 
for  whom  principally  he  was  glad  he  had  life.  But  (as  I  heard 
by  one  that  overheard  them)  she  (wringing  him  by  the  hand) 
made  no  other  answer  but  this.  'My  Lord,'  said  she,  'God 
knows  I  love  you  ;  if  I  were  princess  of  the  whole  world,  and  had, 
withal,  all  the  blessings  that  ever  the  world  brought  forth,  I 
should  not  make  delay  to  lay  myself  and  them  under  your  feet ; 
or  if  I  had  continued  but  as  I  was,  though  (I  must  confess) 
far  unworthy  of  you,  yet  would  I  (with  too  great  a  joy  for  my 
heart  now  to  think  of)  have  accepted  your  vouchsafing  me  to  be 
yours,  and  with  faith  and  obedience  would  have  supplied  all 
other  defects.  But  first  let  me  be  much  more  miserable  than  I 
am  e'er  I  match  such  an  Argalus  to  such  a  Parthenia.  Live 
happy,  dear  Argalus,  I  give  you  full  Uberty,  and  I  beseech  you 
to  take  it ;  and  I  assure  you  I  shall  rejoice  (whatsoever  become 
of  me)  to  see  you  so  coupled,  as  may  be  both  fit  for  your  honour 
and  satisfaction.  With  that  she  burst  out  crying  and  weeping, 
not  able  longer  to  control  herself  from  blaming  her  fortune, 
and  wishing  her  own  death. 

"But  Argalus,  with  a  most  heavy  heart  still  pursuing  his  desire, 
she  fixed  of  mind  to  avoid  further  entreaty,  and  to  fly  all  com- 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA       107 

pany  which  (even  of  him)  grew  unpleasant  unto  her,  one  night 
she  stole  away  ;  but  whither  as  yet  it  is  unknown  or  indeed  what 
is  become  of  her. 

"Argalus  sought  her  long  and  in  many  places." 


[His  efforts  proving  of  no  avail,  he  makes  his  way  to  the  house  of  Kalander 
where  he  is  received  with  joy  and  kindly  entertained.  The  rest  of  the  story  of 
Argalus  and  Parthenia  falls  in  with  the  time  of  the  main  narrative.] 

But  while  all  men,  saving  poor  Argalus,  made  the  joy  of  their 
eyes  speak  for  their  hearts,  fortune  (that  belike  was  bid  to 
that  banquet,  and  meant  to  play  the  good  fellow)  brought  a 
pleasant  adventure  among  them.  It  was  that  as  they  had  newly 
dined,  there  came  in  to  Kalander  a  messenger,  that  brought  him 
word,  a  young  noble  lady,  near  kinswoman  to  the  fair  Helen, 
queen  of  Corinth,  was  come  thither,  and  desired  to  be  lodged  in 
his  house.  Kalander  (most  glad  of  such  an  occasion)  went  out, 
and  all  his  other  worthy  guests  with  him,  saving  only  Argalus, 
who  remained  in  his  chamber,  desirous  that  this  company  were 
once  broken  up,  that  he  might  go  in  his  solitary  quest  after 
Parthenia.  But  when  they  met  this  lady,  Kalander  straight 
thought  he  saw  his  niece  Parthenia,  and  was  about  in  such 
familiar  sort  to  have  spoken  unto  her,  but  she,  in  grave  and 
honourable  manner,  giving  him  to  understand  that  he  was 
mistaken ;  he,  half  ashamed,  excused  himself  with  the  exceeding 
likeness  was  between  them,  though  indeed  it  seemed  that  this 
lady  was  of  the  more  pure  and  dainty  complexion,  she  said,  it 
might  very  well  be,  having  been  many  times  taken  one  for  the 
other.  But  as  soon  as  she  was  brought  into  the  house,  before 
she  would  rest  her,  she  desired  to  speak  with  Argalus  publicly, 
who  she  heard  was  in  the  house.  Argalus  came  hastily,  and  as 
hastily  thought  as  Kalander  had  done,  with  sudden  change  of 
sorrow.  But  she,  when  she  had  staid  their  thoughts  with  telHng 
them  her  name  and  quality,  in  this  sort  spake  unto  him.  ''My 
Lord  Argalus,"  said  she,  "being  of  late  left  in  the  court  of  queen 
Helen  of  Corinth,  as  chief  in  her  absence,  she  being  upon  some 
occasion  gone  thence,  there  came  unto  me  the  lady  Parthenia,  so 
disfigured,  as  I  think  Greece  hath  nothing  so  ugly  to  behold. 


io8  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

For  my  part,  it  was  many  days,  before,  with  vehement  oaths,  and 
some  good  proofs,  she  could  make  me  think  that  she  was  Par- 
thenia.  Yet  at  last  finding  certainly  it  was  she,  and  greatly 
pitying  her  misfortune,  so  much  the  more  as  that  all  men  had 
ever  told  me,  as  now  do  you,  of  the  great  Ukeness  between  us,  I 
took  the  best  care  I  could  of  her,  and  of  her  understood  the  whole 
tragical  history  of  her  undeserved  adventure  :  and  therewithal  of 
the  most  noble  constancy  in  you  my  lord  Argalus,  which  who- 
soever loves  not,  shews  himself  to  be  a  hater  of  virtue,  and  un- 
worthy to  Uve  in  the  society  of  mankind.  But  no  outward 
cherishing  could  salve  the  inward  sore  of  her  mind ;  but  a  few 
days  since  she  died ;  before  her  death  earnestly  desiring,  and 
persuading  me  to  think  of  no  husband  but  of  you,  as  of  the 
only  man  in  the  world  worthy  to  be  loved.  Withal  she  gave  me 
this  ring  to  deliver  to  you,  desiring  you,  and  by  the  authority  of 
love  commanding  you  that  the  affection  you  bare  her,  you  should 
turn  to  me ;  assuring  you  that  nothing  can  please  her  soul  more 
than  to  see  you  and  me  matched  together.  Now  my  lord, 
though  this  office  be  not,  perchance,  suitable  to  my  estate  nor  sex, 
who  should  rather  look  to  be  desired ;  yet,  an  extraordinary 
desert  requires  an  extraordinary  proceeding,  and  therefore  I 
am  come,  with  faithful  love  built  upon  your  worthiness,  to  offer 
myself,  and  to  beseech  you  to  accept  the  offer :  and  if  these 
noble  gentlemen  present  will  say  it  is  great  folly,  let  them  withal 
say,  it  is  great  love."  And  then  she  stayed,  earnestly  attending 
Argalus's  answer ;  who,  first  making  most  hearty  sighs,  doing 
such  obsequies  as  he  could  to  Parthenia,  thus  answered  her. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "infinitely  am  I  bound  to  you,  for  this 
no  more  rare  than  noble  courtesy  ;  but  much  bound  for  the  good- 
ness I  perceive  you  showed  to  the  lady  Parthenia  (with  that  the 
tears  ran  down  his  eyes,  but  he  followed  on)  and  as  much  as  so 
unfortunate  a  man,  fit  to  be  the  spectacle  of  misery,  can  do  you 
a  service ;  determine  you  have  made  a  purchase  of  a  slave,  while 
I  live,  never  to  fail  you.  But  this  great  matter  you  propose 
unto  me,  wherein  I  am  not  so  blind  as  not  to  see  what  happiness 
it  should  be  unto  me,  excellent  lady,  know  that  if  my  heart  were 
mine  to  give,  you  before  all  others  should  have  it ;  but  Parthenia's 
it  is,  though  dead  :    there  I  began,  there  I  end  all  matter  of 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA       109 

affection:  I  hope  I  shall  not  long  tarry  after  her,  with  whose 
beauty  if  I  only  had  been  in  love,  I  should  be  so  with  you,  who 
have  the  same  beauty ;  but  it  was  Parthenia's  self  I  loved,  and 
love,  which  no  hkeness  can  make  one,  no  commandment  dis- 
solve, no  foulness  defile,  nor  no  death  finish."  "And  shall  I 
receive,"  said  she,  "such  disgrace  as  to  be  refused?"  "Noble 
lady,"  said  he,  "let  not  that  hard  word  be  used  ;  who  know  your 
exceeding  worthiness  far  beyond  my  desert ;  but  it  is  only  happi- 
ness I  refuse,  since  of  the  only  happiness  I  could  and  can  desire, 
I  am  refused." 

He  had  scarce  spoken  these  words,  when  she  ran  to  him  and 
embracing  him,  "Why  then  Argalus,"  said  she,  "take  thy  Par- 
thenia":  and  Parthenia  it  was  indeed.  But  because  sorrow 
forbade  him  too  soon  to  believe,  she  told  him  the  truth,  with 
all  circumstances :  how  being  parted  alone,  meaning  to  die  in 
some  solitary  place,  as  she  happened  to  make  her  complaint, 
the  queen  Helen  of  Corinth  (who  hkewise  felt  her  part  of  miser- 
ies) being  then  walking  alone  in  that  lovely  place,  heard  her,  and 
never  left,  till  she  had  known  the  whole  discourse.  Which  the 
noble  queen  greatly  pitying,  she  sent  to  her  a  physician  of  hers, 
the  most  excellent  man  in  the  world,  in  hope  that  he  could  help 
her :  which  in  such  sort  as  they  saw  he  had  performed,  and  she 
taking  with  her  one  of  the  queen's  servants,  thought  yet  to  make 
this  trial,  whether  he  would  quickly  forget  his  true  Parthenia, 
or  no.  Her  speech  was  confirmed  by  the  Corinthian  gentleman, 
who  before  had  kept  her  counsel,  and  Argalus  easily  persuaded 
to  what  more  than  ten  thousand  years  of  hfe  he  desired :  and 
Kalander  would  needs  have  the  marriage  celebrated  in  his  house, 
principally  the  longer  to  hold  his  dear  guest,  towards  whom  he 
was  now,  besides  his  own  habits  of  hospitahty,  carried  with  love 
and  duty :  and  therefore  omitted  no  service  that  his  wit  could 
invent  and  power  minister. 


no  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 


BOOK   III 


[After  they  have  been  some  time  married  Ar gains  receives  a  sudden  summons 
to  the  wars.] 

The  messenger  made  speed  and  found  Argalus  at  a  castle  of  his 
own,  sitting  in  a  parlour  with  the  fair  Parthenia,  he  reading  in  a 
book  the  stories  of  Hercules,  she  by  him,  as  to  hear  him  read : 
but  while  his  eyes  looked  on  the  book,  she  looked  on  his  eyes, 
and  sometimes  staying  him  with  some  pretty  question,  not  so 
much  to  be  resolved  of  the  doubt,  as  to  give  him  occasion  to  look 
upon  her  :  a  happy  couple,  he  joying  in  her,  she  joying  in  herself, 
but  in  herself,  because  she  enjoyed  him :  both  increased  their 
riches  by  giving  to  each  other ;  each  making  one  life  double, 
because  they  made  a  double  Ufe  one ;  where  desire  never  wanted 
satisfaction,  nor  satisfaction  ever  bred  satiety ;  he  ruling,  be- 
cause she  would  obey,  or  rather  because  she  would  obey,  he 
therein  ruling. 

But  when  the  messenger  came  in  with  letters  in  his  hand,  and 
haste  in  his  countenance,  though  she  knew  not  what  to  fear,  yet 
she  feared  because  she  knew  not ;  but  she  rose,  and  went  aside, 
while  he  delivered  his  letters  and  message :  yet  afar  off  she 
looked,  now  at  the  messenger,  and  then  at  her  husband :  the 
same  fear,  which  made  her  loth  to  have  cause  of  fear,  yet  making 
her  seek  cause  to  nourish  her  fear.  And  well  she  found  there  was 
some  serious  matter :  for  her  husband's  countenance  figured 
some  resolution  between  lothness  and  necessity :  and  once  his 
eye  cast  upon  her,  and  finding  hers  upon  him,  he  blushed, 
and  she  blushed,  because  he  blushed,  and  yet  straight  grew 
pale  because  she  knew  not  why  he  had  blushed.  But  when  he 
had  read,  and  heard,  and  dispatched  away  the  messenger,  hke  a 
man  in  whom  honour  could  not  be  rocked  asleep  by  affection, 
with  promise  quickly  to  follow ;  he  came  to  Parthenia,  and  as 
sorry  as  might  be  for  parting,  and  yet  more  sorry  for  her  sorrow, 
he  gave  her  the  letter  to  read.  SHe  with  fearful  slowness  took  it, 
and  with  fearful  quickness  read  it;  and  having  read  it,  ''Ah  my 
Argalus,"  said  she,  "and  have  you  made  such  haste  to  answer? 
and  are  you  so  soon  resolved  to  leave  me?"  but  he  discoursing 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA       m 

unto  her  how  much  it  imported  his  honour,  which  since  it  was 
dear  to  him,  he  knew  it  would  be  dear  unto  her,  her  reason 
overclouded  with  sorrow,  suffered  her  not  presently  to  reply, 
but  left  the  charge  thereof  to  tears,  and  sighs,  which  he  not  able 
to  bear,  left  her  alone,  and  went  to  give  order  for  his  present 
departure. 

But  by  that  time  he  was  armed,  and  ready  to  go,  she  had  re- 
covered a  little  strength  of  spirit  again,  and  coming  out,  and  see- 
ing him  armed,  and  wanting  nothing  for  his  departure  but  her  fare- 
well, she  ran  to  him,  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  kneeling  down 
without  regard  who  either  heard  her  speech,  or  saw  her  de- 
meanour. "My  Argalus,  my  Argalus,"  said  she,  "do  not  thus 
forsake  me.  Remember,  alas  remember  that  I  have  interest  in 
you,  which  I  will  never  yield  shall  be  thus  adventured.  Your 
valour  is  already  sufficiently  known :  sufficiently  have  you  al- 
ready done  for  your  country :  enough,  enough  there  are  beside 
you  to  lose  less  worthy  lives.  Woe  is  me,  what  shall  become  of 
me  if  you  thus  abandon  me  ?  then  was  it  time  for  you  to  follow 
those  adventures,  when  you  adventured  nobody  but  yourself, 
and  were  nobody's  but  your  own.  But  now  pardon  me,  that 
now,  or  never,  I  claim  mine  own ;  mine  you  are,  and  without 
me  you  can  undertake  no  danger :  and  will  you  endanger  Par- 
thenia  ?  Parthenia  shall  be  in  the  battle  of  your  light :  Parthenia 
shall  smart  in  your  pain,  and  your  blood  must  be  bled  by  Par- 
thenia." "Dear  Parthenia,"  said  he,  "this  is  the  first  time  that 
ever  you  resisted  my  will :  I  thank  you  for  it,  but  persevere  not 
in  it;  and  let  not  the  tears  of  these  most  beloved  eyes  be  a 
presage  unto  me  of  that  which  you  would  not  should  happen,  I 
shall  live,  doubt  not :  for  so  great  a  blessing  as  you  are  was  not 
given  unto  me  so  soon  to  be  deprived  of  it.  Look  for  me  therefore 
shortly,  and  victorious;  and  prepare  a  joyful  welcome,  and  I 
will  wish  for  no  other  triumph."  She  answered  not,  but  stood 
as  it  were  thunder-stricken  with  amazement,  for  true  love  made 
obedience  stand  up  against  all  other  passions.  But  when  he  took 
her  in  his  arms,  and  sought  to  print  his  heart  in  her  sweet  lips, 
she  fell  in  a  swoon,  so  that  he  was  fain  to  leave  her  to  her  gentle- 
women, and  carried  away  by  the  tyranny  of  honour,  though 
with  many  a  back  cast  look  and  hearty  groan,  went  to  the  camp. 


112  SIR   PHILIP    SIDNEY 

[In  the  course  of  the  war  A  r  gal  us  is  slain  by  Amphialus,  inconsequence  of 
which  Parthenia  gives  way  to  grievous  dispair.  Shortly  after  this  event, 
Amphialus  is  called  out  to  do  battle  with  a  stranger  called  the  Knight  of  the 
Tomb.  In  the  combat  that  ensues,  fortune  falls  to  the  challenged,  the  Knight 
of  the  Tomb  receiving  a  mortal  wound;  whereupon  Amphialus  hastens  to 
unhelm  the  foe  in  order  to  discover  his  identity.] 

But  the  headpiece  was  no  sooner  off,  but  that  there  fell  about 
the  shoulders  of  the  overcome  knight  the  treasure  of  fair  golden 
hair,  which  with  the  face,  soon  known  by  the  badge  of  excellency, 
witnessed  that  it  was  Parthenia,  the  unfortunately  virtuous 
wife  of  Argalus;  her  beauty  then,  even  in  despite  of  the  passed 
sorrow,  or  coming  death,  assuring  all  beholders  that  it  was  noth- 
ing short  of  perfection.  For  her  exceeding  fair  eyes,  having 
with  continual  weeping  gotten  a  little  redness  about  them,  her 
round  sweetly  swelling  lipxs  a  Httle  trembling,  as  though  they 
kissed  their  neighbor  death  ;  in  her  cheeks  the  whiteness  striving 
little  by  little  to  get  upon  the  rosiness  of  them ;  her  neck,  a  neck 
indeed  of  alabaster,  displaying  the  wound,  which  with  most 
dainty  blood  laboured  to  drown  his  own  beauties ;  so  that  here 
was  a  river  of  purest  red,  there  an  island  of  perfectest  white,  each 
giving  lustre  to  the  other,  with  the  sweet  countenance,  God 
knows,  full  of  an  unaffected  languishing ;  so  that  Amphialus 
was  astonished  with  grief,  compassion  and  shame,  detesting  his 
fortune  that  made  him  unfortunate  in  victory. 

Therefore  putting  off  his  headpiece  and  gauntlet,  kneeUng 
down  unto  her,  and  with  tears  testifying  his  sorrow,  he  offered 
his,  by  himself  accursed,  hands  to  help  her,  protesting  his  life 
and  power  to  be  ready  to  do  her  honour.  But  Parthenia,  who  had 
inward  messengers  of  the  desired  death's  approach,  looking  upon 
him,  and  straight  turning  away  her  feeble  sight,  as  from  a  delight- 
less  object,  drawing  out  her  words,  which  her  breath,  loth  to  de- 
part from  so  sweet  a  body,  did  faintly  deliver:  *'Sir,"  said  she, 
"I  pray  you,  if  prayers  have  place  in  enemies,  to  let  my  maids 
take  my  body  untouched  by  you  :  the  only  honour  I  now  desire 
by  your  means,  is,  that  I  have  no  honour  of  you.  Argalus  made 
no  such  bargain  with  you,  that  the  hands  which  killed  him  should 
help  me.     I  have  of  them,  and  I  do  not  only  pardon  you,  but 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA       113 

thank  you  for  it,  the  service  which  I  desired.  There  rests  nothing 
now,  but  that  I  go  Kve  with  him,  since  whose  death  I  have 
done  nothing  but  die."  Then  pausing,  and  a  httle  fainting,  and 
again  coming  to  herself ;  "O  sweet  Hfe,  welcome,"  said  she,  "now 
feel  I  the  bands  united  of  the  cruel  death,  which  so  long  hath 
held  me.  And  O  hfe,  O  death,  answer  for  me,  that  my  thoughts 
have  not  so  much  as  in  a  dream  tasted  any  comfort,  since  they 
were  deprived  of  Argalus.  I  come,  my  Argalus,  I  come :  and, 
O  God,  hide  my  faults  in  thy  mercies,  and  grant,  as  I  feel  thou 
dost  grant,  that  in  thy  eternal  love,  we  may  love  each  other 
eternally.  And  this,  O  Lord:"  —  but  there  Atropos  cut  off 
her  sentence :  for  with  that,  casting  up  both  eyes  and  hands 
to  the  skies,  the  noble  soul  departed  (one  might  well  assure 
himself)  to  heaven,  which  left  the  body  in  so  heavenly  a  de- 
meanour. 

But  Amphialus,  with  a  heart  oppressed  with  grief,  because  of 
her  request,  withdrew  himself :  but  the  judges,  as  full  of  pity, 
had  been  all  this  while  disarming  her,  and  her  gentlewomen  with 
lamentable  cries  labouring  to  staunch  the  remediless  wounds : 
and  a  while  she  was  dead  before  they  perceived  it,  death  being 
able  to  divide  the  soul,  but  not  the  beauty  from  that  body.  Then 
kissing  her  cold  hands  and  feet,  weary  of  the  world,  since  she  was 
gone  who  was  their  world,  the  very  heavens  seemed  with  a 
cloudy  countenance  to  lour  at  the  loss,  and  fame  itself  (though  by 
nature  glad  to  tell  such  rare  accidents)  yet  could  not  choose  but 
deliver  it  in  lamentable  accents,  and  in  such  sort  quickly  it  went 
all  over  the  camp.  Basilius  himself  came  forth  and  brought  the 
fair  Gynecia  with  him.  Both  they  and  the  rest  of  the  principal 
nobility  went  out  to  make  honour  triumph  over  death,  conveying 
that  excellent  body  (whereto  Basilius  himself  would  needs  lend 
his  shoulder)  to  a  church  a  mile  from  the  camp,  where  the 
vaHant  Argalus  lay  entombed  ;  recommending  to  that  sepulchre 
the  blessed  relics  of  a  faithful  and  virtuous  love,  giving  order  for 
the  making  of  two  marble  images  to  represent  them,  and  each 
way  enriching  the  tomb  :  upon  which  Basilius  himself  caused 
this  epitaph  to  be  written, 

His  Being  was  in  her  alone 
And  he  not  Being  she  was  none. 


114  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

They  joyed  One  joy,  One  grief  they  griev'd, 
One  love  they  lov'd,  One  hfe  they  hv'd. 
The  hand  was  One,  One  was  the  sword 
That  did  his  death,  her  death  afford. 

As  all  the  rest ;  so  now  the  stone 
That  tombs  the  Two  is  justly  One. 

Argalus  and  Parthenia. 


BOOK  III 

[Philoclea  becomes  conscious  of  her  Love  for  Zelmane,  who 
IS  MusiDORUs's  Friend,  Pyrocles,  disguised  as  an  Amazon.] 

The  sweet  minded  Philoclea  was  in  their  degree  of  well-doing, 
to  whom  the  not  knowing  of  evil  serveth  for  a  ground  of  virtue, 
and  hold  their  inward  powers  in  better  form  with  an  unspotted 
simpHcity,  than  many  who  rather  cunningly  seek  to  know  what 
goodness  is  than  willingly  take  into  themselves  the  following  of 
it.  But  as  that  sweet  and  simple  breath  of  heavenly  goodness 
is  the  easier  to  be  altered  because  it  hath  not  passed  through  the 
worldly  wickedness,  nor  feelingly  found  the  evil  that  evil  carries 
with  it,  so  now  the  lady  Philoclea  (whose  eyes  and  senses  had 
received  nothing,  but  according  as  the  natural  sense  of  each 
thing  required ;  whose  tender  youth  had  obediently  lived  under 
her  parents'  behests,  without  framing  out  of  her  own  will  the  fore- 
choosing  of  any  thing)  when  now  she  came  to  a  point  wherein 
her  judgment  was  to  be  practised  in  knowing  faultiness  by  his 
first  tokens,  she  was  like  a  young  fawn  who,  coming  in  the 
wind  of  the  hunters,  doth  not  know  whether  it  be  a  thing  or  not 
to  be  eschewed ;  whereof  at  this  time  she  began  to  get  a  costly 
experience.  For  after  that  Zelmane  had  a  while  lived  in  the 
lodge  with  her,  and  that  her  only  being  a  noble  stranger  had 
bred  a  kind  of  heedful  attention ;  her  coming  to  that  lonely 
place,  where  she  had  nobody  but  her  parents,  a  willingness  of 
conversation  ;  her  wit  and  behaviour,  a  liking  and  silent  admira- 
tion ;  at  length  the  excellency  of  her  natural  gifts,  joined  with  the 

»  The  passages  chosen  from  Book.  II  have  been  placed  out  of  order,  so  that  the  story  of 
Argalus  and  Parthenia  which  appears  in  Books  I  and  III  may  form  a  connected  whole. 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE'S  ARCADIA   115 

extreme  shows  she  made  of  most  devout  honouring  Philoclea 
(carrying  thus,  in  one  person,  the  only  two  bands  of  goodwill, 
loveliness  and  lovingness)  brought  forth  in  her  heart  a  yielding 
to  a  most  friendly  affection ;  which  when  it  had  gotten  so  full 
possession  of  the  keys  of  her  mind  that  it  would  receive  no 
message  from  her  senses  without  that  affection  were  the  in- 
terpreter, then  straight  grew  an  exceeding  delight  still  to  be  with 
her,  with  an  unmeasurable  liking  of  all  that  Zelmane  did  :  matters 
being  so  turned  in  her,  that  where  at  first  liking  her  manners  did 
breed  goodwill,  now  goodwill  became  the  chief  cause  of  liking 
her  manners :  so  that  within  a  while  Zelmane  was  not  prized 
for  her  demeanour,  but  the  demeanour  was  prized  because  it  was 
Zelmane's.  Then  followed  that  most  natural  effect  of  conform- 
ing herself  to  that  which  she  did  like,  and  not  only  wishing  to  be 
herself  such  another  in  all  things,  but  to  ground  an  imitation  upon 
so  much  an  esteemed  authority,  so  that  the  next  degree  was  to 
mark  all  Zelmane's  doings,  speeches,  and  fashions,  and  to  take 
them  into  herself  as  a  pattern  of  worthy  proceeding.  Which 
when  once  it  was  enacted,  not  only  by  the  commonahty  of 
passions,  but  agreed  unto  by  her  most  noble  thoughts,  and  that 
reason  itself,  not  yet  experienced  in  the  issues  of  such  matters, 
had  granted  his  royal  assent,  then  friendship,  a  diligent  officer, 
took  care  to  see  the  statute  thoroughly  observed.  Then  grew  on 
that  not  only  did  she  imitate  the  soberness  of  her  countenance, 
the  gracefulness  of  her  speech,  but  even  their  particular  gestures, 
so  that  as  Zelmane  did  often  eye  her,  she  would  often  eye  Zel- 
mane ;  and  as  Zelmane's  eyes  would  deliver  a  submissive,  but 
vehement  desire  in  their  look,  she,  though  as  yet  she  had  not  the 
desire  in  her,  yet  should  her  eyes  answer  in  like  piercing  kind- 
ness of  a  look.  Zelmane,  as  much  as  Gynecia's  jealousy  would 
suffer,  desired  to  be  near  Philoclea ;  Philoclea,  as  much  as 
Gynecia's  jealousy  would  suffer,  desired  to  be  near  Zelmane. 
If  Zelmane  took  her  hand,  and  softly  strained  it,  she  also,  thinking 
the  knots  of  friendship  ought  to  be  mutual,  would,  with  a  sweet 
fastness,  show  she  was  loth  to  part  from  it.  And  if  Zelmane 
sighed,  she  would  sigh  also ;  when  Zelmane  was  sad,  she  deemed 
it  wisdom,  and  therefore  she  would  be  sad  too.  Zelmane's 
languishing  countenance  with  crossed  arms,  and  sometimes  cast 


ii6  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

up  eyes,  she  thought  to  have  an  excellent  grace,  and  therefore 
she  also  willingly  put  on  the  same  countenance,  till  at  last, 
poor  soul,  e'er  she  were  aware,  she  accepted  not  only  the  badge, 
but  the  service;  not  only  the  sign,  but  the  passion  signified. 
For  whether  it  were  that  her  wit  in  continuance  did  find  that 
Zelmane's  friendship  was  full  of  impatient  desire,  having  more 
than  ordinary  limits,  and  therefore  she  was  content  to  second 
Zelmane,  though  herself  knew  not  the  limits,  or  that  in  truth, 
true  love,  well  considered,  hath  an  infective  power,  at  last 
she  fell  in  acquaintance  with  love's  harbinger,  wishing;  first 
she  would  wish  that  they  two  might  live  all  their  lives  together 
like  two  of  Diana's  nymphs.  But  that  wish  she  thought  not 
sufficient,  because  she  knew  there  would  be  more  nymphs  be- 
sides them,  who  also  would  have  their  part  in  Zelmane.  Then 
would  she  wish  that  she  were  her  sister,  that  such  a  natural 
band  might  make  her  more  special  to  her,  but  against  that,  she 
considered,  that,  though  being  her  sister,  if  she  happened  to  be 
married  she  should  be  robbed  of  her.  Then  grown  bolder  she 
would  wish  either  herself,  or  Zelmane,  a  man,  that  there  might 
succeed  a  blessed  marriage  between  them.  But  when  that  wish 
had  once  displayed  his  ensign  in  her  mind,  then  followed  whole 
squadrons  of  longings  that  so  it  might  be,  with  a  main  battle  of 
mislikings  and  repinings  against  their  creation,  that  so  it  was  not. 
Then  dreams  by  night  began  to  bring  more  unto  her  than  she 
durst  wish  by  day,  whereout  waking  did  make  her  know  herself 
the  better  by  the  image  of  those  fancies.  But  as  some  diseases 
when  they  are  easy  to  be  cured,  they  are  hard  to  be  known,  but 
when  they  grow  easy  to  be  known,  they  are  almost  impossible 
to  be  cured,  so  the  sweet  Philoclea,  while  she  might  prevent  it, 
she  did  not  feel  it,  now  she  felt  it,  when  it  was  past  preventing ; 
like  a  river,  no  rampircs  being  built  against  it,  till  already  it  have 
overflowed.  For  now  indeed  love  pulled  off  his  mask,  and  showed 
his  face  unto  her,  and  told  her  plainly  that  she  was  his  prisoner. 
Then  needed  she  no  more  paint  her  face  with  passions,  for 
passions  shone  through  her  face ;  then  her  rosy  colour  was 
often  increased  with  extraordinary  blushing,  and  so  another  time, 
perfect  whiteness  descended  to  a  degree  of  paleness ;  now  hot, 
then  cold,  desiring  she  knew  not  what,  nor  how,  if  she  knew  what. 


THE   COUNTESS  OF   PEMBROKE'S   ARCADIA       117 

Then  her  mind,  though  too  late,  by  the  smart  was  brought  to 
think  of  the  disease,  and  her  own  proof  taught  her  to  know  her 
mother's  mind,  which,  as  no  error  gives  so  strong  assault  as 
that  which  comes  armed  in  the  authority  of  a  parent,  so  greatly 
fortified  her  desires  to  see  that  her  mother  had  the  like  desires. 
And  the  more  jealous  her  mother  was,  the  more  she  thought  the 
jewel  precious  which  was  with  so  many  locks  guarded.  But 
that  prevailing  so  far,  as  to  keep  the  two  lovers  from  private 
conference,  then  began  she  to  feel  the  sweetness  of  a  lover's 
soHtariness,  when  freely  with  words  and  gestures,  as  if  Zelmane 
were  present,  she  might  give  passage  to  her  thoughts,  and  so,  as 
it  were,  utter  out  some  smoke  of  those  flames,  wherewith  else 
she  was  not  only  burned  but  smothered.  As  this  night,  that 
going  from  one  lodge  to  the  other,  by  her  mother's  command- 
ment, with  doleful  gestures  and  uncertain  paces,  she  did  willingly 
accept  the  time's  offer  to  be  a  while  alone :  so  that  going  a  little 
aside  into  the  wood,  where  many  times  before  she  had  delighted 
to  walk,  her  eyes  were  saluted  with  a  tuft  of  trees,  so  close  set 
together,  that,  with  the  shade  the  moon  gave  through  it,  it 
might  breed  a  fearful  kind  of  devotion  to  look  upon  it :  but  true 
thoughts  of  love  banished  all  vain  fancy  of  superstition.  Full 
well  she  did  both  remember  and  like  the  place,  for  there  had 
she  often  with  their  shade  beguiled  Phcebus  of  looking  upon  her  : 
there  had  she  enjoyed  herself  often,  while  she  was  mistress  of 
herself  and  had  no  other  thoughts,  but  such  as  might  arise  out  of 
quiet  senses. 

[In  this  spot  she  gives  way  to  an  expression  of  her  passion.] 

In  this  depth  of  muses  and  divers  sorts  of  discourses,  would 
she  ravingly  have  remained,  but  that  Dametas  and  Miso,  who  were 
round  about  to  seek  her,  understanding  that  she  was  come  to  their 
lodge  that  night,  came  hard  by  her;  Dametas  saying  that  he 
would  not  deal  in  other  bodys'  matters,  but  for  his  part  he  did 
not  hke  that  maids  should  once  stir  out  of  their  fathers'  houses, 
but  if  it  were  to  milk  a  cow  or  save  a  chicken  from  a  kite's  foot, 
or  some  such  other  matter  of  importance.  And  Miso  swearing 
that  if  it  were  her  daughter  Mopsa,  she  would  give  her  a  lesson 


ii8  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

for  walking  so  late  that  should  make  her  keep  within  doors  for 
one  fortnight.  But  their  jangling  made  Philoclea  rise,  and  pre- 
tending as  though  she  had  done  it  but  to  sport  with  them,  went 
with  them,  after  she  had  willed  Miso  to  wait  upon  her  mother  to 
the  lodge.  .  .  . 

BOOK  II 

[The  Princesses  bathe  in  the  River  Ladon.] 

Their  sober  dinner  being  come  and  gone,  to  recreate  themselves 
something,  even  tired  with  the  noisesomeness  of  Miso's  conversa- 
tion, they  determined  to  go,  while  the  heat  of  the  day  lasted,  to 
bathe  themselves,  such  being  the  manner  of  the  Arcadian  nymphs 
often  to  do,  in  the  river  Ladon,  and  take  with  them  a  lute,  mean- 
ing to  delight  them  under  some  shadow.  But  they  could  not 
stir,  but  that  Miso,  with  her  daughter  Mopsa  was  after  them : 
and  as  it  lay  in  their  way  to  pass  by  the  other  lodge,  Zelmane 
out  of  her  window  espied  them,  and  so  stole  down  after  them, 
which  she  might  the  better  do,  because  that  Gynecia  was  sick, 
and  Basihus,  that  day  being  his  birth-day,  according  to  his 
manner,  was  busy  about  his  devotions ;  and  therefore  she  went 
after,  hoping  to  find  some  time  to  speak  with  Philoclea  :  but  not 
a  word  could  she  begin,  but  that  Miso  would  be  one  of  the 
audience,  so  that  she  was  driven  to  recommend  thinking,  speak- 
ing, and  all,  to  her  eyes,  who  diligently  performed  her  trust, 
till  they  came  to  the  river  side,  which  of  all  rivers  of  Greece  had 
the  praise  for  excellent  pureness  and  sweetness,  insomuch  as  the 
very  bathing  in  it  was  accounted  exceeding  healthful.  It  ran 
upon  so  fine  and  delicate  a  ground,  as  one  could  not  easily  judge 
whether  the  river  did  more  wash  the  gravel,  or  the  gravel  did 
purify  the  river ;  the  river  not  running  forth  right,  but  almost 
continually  winding,  as  if  the  lower  streams  would  return  to 
their  spring,  or  that  the  river  had  a  delight  to  play  with  itself. 
The  banks  of  either  side  seeming  arms  of  the  loving  earth  that 
fain  would  embrace  it,  and  the  river  a  wanton  nymph  which  still 
would  slip  from  it ;  either  side  of  the  bank  being  fringed  with 
most  beautiful  trees,  which  resisted  the  sun's  darts  from  over- 
much piercing  the  natural  coldness  of  the  river.     There  was 


THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE'S  ARCADIA       iig 

among  the  rest  a  goodly  cypress,  who  bowing  her  fair  head  over 
the  water,  it  seemed  she  looked  into  it,  and  dressed  her  green 
locks  by  that  running  river. 

There  the  princesses  determining  to  bathe  themselves,  though 
it  was  so  privileged  a  place,  upon  pain  of  death,  as  nobody  durst 
presume  to  come  hither ;  yet  for  the  more  surety,  they  looked 
round  about,  and  could  see  nothing  but  a  water-spaniel,  who 
came  down  the  river,  showing  that  he  hunted  for  a  duck,  and 
with  a  snuffling  grace,  disdaining  that  his  smelling  force  could 
not  as  well  prevail  through  the  water  as  through  the  air ;  and 
therefore  waiting  with  his  eye  to  see  whether  he  could  espy  the 
ducks  getting  up  again,  but  then  a  little  below  them  failing  of  his 
purpose,  he  got  out  of  the  river,  and  shaking  off  the  water  (as 
great  men  do  their  friends)  now  he  had  no  farther  cause  to  use 
it,  inweeded  himself  so  that  the  ladies  lost  the  farther  marking 
of  his  sportfulness :  and  inviting  Zelmane  also  to  wash  herself 
with  them,  and  she  excusing  herself  with  having  taken  a  late 
cold,  they  began  by  piece-meal  to  take  away  the  eclipsing  of  their 
apparel. 

Zelmane  would  have  put  to  her  helping  hand,  but  she  was 
taken  with  such  a  quivering,  that  she  thought  it  more  wisdom 
to  lean  herself  to  a  tree,  and  look  on,  while  Miso  and  Mopsa, 
like  a  couple  of  foreswat  melters,  were  getting  the  pure  silver  of 
their  bodies  out  of  the  ure  of  their  garments.  But  as  the  rai- 
ments went  ofi  to  receive  the  kisses  of  the  ground,  Zelmane 
envied  the  happiness  of  all,  but  of  the  smock  was  even  jealous, 
and  when  that  was  taken  away  too,  and  that  Philoclea  remained, 
for  her  Zelmane  only  marked,  like  a  diamond  taken  from  out  of 
the  rock,  or  rather  like  the  sun  getting  from  under  a  cloud,  and 
showing  his  naked  beams  to  the  full  view,  then  was  the  beauty 
too  much  for  a  patient  sight,  the  delight  too  strong  for  a  stayed 
conceit,  so  that  Zelmane  could  not  choose  but  run,  to  touch, 
embrace  and  kiss  her.  But  conscience  made  her  come  to  herself, 
and  leave  Philoclea,  who  blushing,  and  withal  smihng,  making 
shamefacedness  pleasant,  and  pleasure  shamefaced,  tenderly 
moved  her  feet,  unwonted  to  feel  the  naked  ground,  till  the 
touch  of  the  cold  water  made  a  pretty  kind  of  shrugging  come 
over  her  body,  like  the  twinkling  of  the  fairest  among  the  fixed 


I20  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

stars.  But  the  river  itself  gave  way  unto  her,  so  that  she  was 
straight  breast  high,  which  was  the  deepest  that  thereabout  she 
could  be :  and  when  cold  Ladon  had  once  fully  embraced  them, 
himself  was  no  more  so  cold  to  those  ladies,  but  as  if  his  cold 
complexion  had  been  heated  with  love,  so  seemed  he  to  play 
about  every  part  he  could  touch. 

"Ah  sweet,  now  sweetest  Ladon,"  said  Zelmane,  "why  dost 
thou  not  stay  thy  course  to  have  more  full  taste  of  thy  happiness  ? 
but  the  reason  is  manifest,  the  upper  streams  make  such  haste 
to  have  their  part  of  embracing,  that  the  nether,  though  lothly, 
must  needs  give  place  unto  them,  O  happy  Ladon  within 
whom  she  is,  upon  whom  her  beauty  falls,  through  whom  her 
eye  pierceth.  O  happy  Ladon,  which  art  now  an  unperfect 
mirror  of  all  perfection,  can'st  thou  ever  forget  the  blessedness  of 
this  impression  ?  if  thou  do,  then  let  thy  bed  be  turned  from  fine 
gravel  to  weeds  and  mud ;  if  thou  do,  let  some  unjust  niggards 
make  wares  to  spoil  thy  beauty;  if  thou  do,  let  some  greater 
river  fall  into  thee,  to  take  away  the  name  of  Ladon,  O  !  Ladon, 
happy  Ladon,  rather  slide  than  run  by  her,  lest  thou  should'st 
make  her  legs  slip  from  her,  and  then,  O  happy  Ladon,  who 
would  then  call  thee,  but  the  most  cursed  Ladon?"  But  as 
the  ladies  played  then  in  the  water,  sometimes  striking  it  with 
their  hands,  the  water,  making  lines  in  his  face,  seemed  to  smile 
at  such  beating,  and  with  twenty  bubbles  not  to  be  content  to 
have  the  picture  of  their  face  in  large  upon  him,  but  he  would 
in  each  of  these  bubbles  set  forth  the  miniature  of  them. 


THE   UNFORTUNATE  TRAVELLER 

OR,  Jack  Wilton 

THOMAS   NASHE 

About  that  time  that  the  terror  of  the  world  and  fever  quartan 
of  the  French,  Henry  the  Eight  (the  only  true  subject  of  chroni- 
cles), advanced  his  standard  against  the  two  hundred  and  fifty 
towers  of  Tournay  and  Terouenne,  and  had  the  Emperor  and 
all  the  nobihty  of  Flanders,  Holland,  and  Brabant  as  mercenary 
attendants  on  his  full-sailed  fortune,  I,  Jack  Wilton,  (a  gentle- 
man at  least,)  was  a  certain  kind  of  an  appendix  or  page,  belong- 
ing or  appertaining  in  or  unto  the  confines  of  the  English  court ; 
where  what  my  credit  was,  a  number  of  my  creditors  that  I 
cozened  can  testify :  Ccelum  petimus  stultitia,  which  of  us  all  is 
not  a  sinner  ?  Be  it  known  to  as  many  as  will  pay  money  enough 
to  peruse  my  story,  that  I  followed  the  court  or  the  camp,  or 
the  camp  and  the  court.  There  did  I  (Soft,  let  me  drink  before 
I  go  any  further  !)  reign  sole  king  of  the  cans  and  black  jacks, 
prince  of  the  pygmies,  county  palatine  of  clean  straw  and  provant, 
and,  to  conclude,  lord  high  regent  of  rashers  of  the  coals  and  red 
herring  cobs.  Paulo  majora  canamus.  Well,  to  the  purpose. 
What  stratagemical  acts  and  monuments  do  you  think  an  ingeni- 
ous infant  of  my  years  might  enact?  You  will  say,  it  were 
sufficient  if  he  slur  a  die,  pawn  his  master  to  the  utmost  penny, 
and  minister  t]ie  oath  of  the  pantofle  artificially.  These  are 
signs  of  good  education,  I  must  confess,  and  arguments  of  In 
grace  and  virtue  to  proceed.  Oh,  but  Aliquid  latet  quod  non 
patet,  there's  a  further  path  I  must  trace:  examples  confirm; 
Hst,  lordings,  to  my  proceedings.  Whosoever  is  acquainted 
with  the  state  of  a  camp  understands  that  in  it  be  many  quarters, 
and  yet  not  so  many  as  on  London  bridge.  In  those  quarters 
are  many  companies :  Much  company,  much  knavery,  as  true 
as  that  old  adage,  "Much  courtesy,  much  subtilty."      Those 


122  THOMAS  NASHE 

companies,  like  a  great  deal  of  corn,  do  yield  some  chaff ;  the 
corn  are  cormorants,  the  chaff  are  good  fellows,  which  are  quickly 
blown  to  nothing  with  bearing  a  light  heart  in  a  light  purse. 
Amongst  this  chaff  was  I  winnowing  my  wits  to  live  merrily, 
and  by  my  troth  so  I  did :  the  prince  could  but  command  men 
spend  their  blood  in  his  service,  I  could  make  them  spend  all 
the  money  they  had  for  my  pleasure.  But  poverty  in  the  end 
parts  friends ;  though  I  was  prince  of  their  purses,  and  exacted 
of  my  unthrift  subjects  as  much  hquid  allegiance  as  any  kaiser 
in  the  world  could  do,  yet  where  it  is  not  to  be  had  the  king  must 
lose  his  right :  want  cannot  be  withstood,  men  can  do  no  more 
than  they  can  do :  what  remained  then,  but  the  fox's  case  must 
help,  when  the  lion's  skin  is  out  at  the  elbows  ? 

There  was  a  lord  in  the  camp,  let  him  be  a  Lord  of  Misrule  if 
you  will,  for  he  kept  a  plain  alehouse  without  welt  or  guard  of  any 
ivy  bush,  and  sold  cider  and  cheese  by  pint  and  by  pound  to  all 
that  came,  (at  the  very  name  of  cider  I  can  but  sigh,  there  is  so 
much  of  it  in  Rhenish  wine  nowadays).  Well,  Tendit  ad  sidera 
virtus,  there's  great  virtue  belongs  (I  can  tell  you)  to  a  cup  of 
cider,  and  very  good  men  have  sold  it,  and  at  sea  it  is  Aqua 
ccelestis;  but  that's  neither  here  nor  there,  if  it  had  no  other 
patron  but  this  peer  of  quart  pots  to  authorise  it,  it  were  suffi- 
cient. This  great  lord,  this  worthy  lord,  this  noble  lord,  thought 
no  scorn  (Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us  !)  to  have  his  great  velvet 
breeches  larded  with  the  droppings  of  this  dainty  liquor,  and  yet 
he  was  an  old  servitor,  a  cavalier  of  an  ancient  house,  as  might 
appear  by  the  arms  of  his  ancestors,  drawn  very  amiably  in 
chalk  on  the  inside  of  his  tent  door. 

He  and  no  other  was  the  man  I  chose  out  to  damn  with  a 
lewd  moneyless  device ;  for  coming  to  him  on  a  day,  as  he  was 
counting  his  barrels  and  setting  the  price  in  chalk  on  the  head  of 
them,  I  did  my  duty  very  devoutly,  and  told  his  ale-y  honour  I 
had  matters  of  some  secrecy  to  impart  unto  him,  if  it  pleased 
him  to  grant  me  private  audience.  "With  me,  young  Wilton  ? " 
quod  he;  " marry,  and  shalt !  Bring  us  a  pint  of  cider  of  a  fresh 
tap  into  the  Three  Cups  here;  wash  the  pot."  So  into  a  back 
room  he  led  me,  where  after  he  had  spit  on  his  finger,  and  picked 
off  two  or  three  moats  of  his  old  moth-eaten  velvet  cap,  and 


THE   UNFORTUNATE  TRAVELLER  123 

sponged  and  wrung  all  the  rheumatic  drivel  from  his  ill-favoured 
goat's  beard,  he  bade  me  declare  my  mind,  and  thereupon  he 
drank  to  me  on  the  same.  I  up  with  a  long  circumstance,  ahas, 
a  cunning  shift  of  the  seventeens,  and  discoursed  unto  him  what 
entire  affection  I  had  borne  him  time  out  of  mind,  partly  for  the 
high  descent  and  lineage  from  whence  he  sprung,  and  partly 
for  the  tender  care  and  provident  respect  he  had  of  poor  soldiers, 
that,  whereas  the  vastity  of  that  place  (which  afforded  them  no 
indifferent  supply  of  drink  or  of  victuals)  might  humble  them  to 
some  extremity,  and  so  weaken  their  hands,  he  vouchsafed  in  his 
own  person  to  be  a  victualler  to  the  camp  (a  rare  example  of  mag- 
nificence and  honourable  courtesy) ,  and  diligently  provided  that 
without  far  travel  every  man  might  for  his  money  have  cider  and 
cheese  his  belly  full ;  nor  did  he  sell  his  cheese  by  the  wey  only, 
or  his  cider  by  the  great,  but  abased  himself  with  his  own  hands 
to  take  a  shoemaker's  knife  (a  homely  instrument  for  such  a  high 
personage  to  touch)  and  cut  it  out  equally,  like  a  true  justiciary, 
in  little  pennyworths  that  it  would  do  a  man  good  for  to  look 
upon.  So  likewise  of  his  cider,  the  poor  man  might  have  his 
moderate  draught  of  it  (as  thefe  is  a  moderation  in  all  things) 
as  well  for  his  doit  or  his  dandiprat  as  the  rich  man  for  his  half 
sous  or  his  denier.  "Not  so  much,"  quoth  I,  "but  this  tapster's 
linen  apron  which  you  wear  to  protect  your  apparel  from  the 
imperfections  of  the  spigot,  most  amply  bewrays  your  lowly 
mind.  I  speak  it  with  tears,  too  few  such  noble  men  have  we, 
that  will  draw  drink  in  Hnen  aprons.  Why,  you  are  every 
child's  fellow ;  any  man  that  comes  under  the  name  of  a  soldier 
and  a  good  fellow,  you  will  sit  and  bear  company  to  the  last  pot, 
yea,  and  you  take  in  as  good  part  the  homely  phrase  of  'Mine 
host,  here's  to  you,'  as  if  one  saluted  you  by  all  the  titles  of  your 
barony.  These  considerations,  I  say,  which  the  world  suffers 
to  slip  by  in  the  channel  of  forgetfulness,  have  moved  me,  in 
ardent  zeal  of  your  welfare,  to  forewarn  you  of  some  dangers  that 
have  beset  you  and  your  barrels."  At  the  name  of  dangers  he 
start  up,  and  bounced  with  his  fist  on  the  board  so  hard  that  his 
tapster  overhearing  him,  cried,  "Anon,  anon,  sir  !  by  and  by  !" 
and  came  and  made  a  low  leg  and  asked  him  what  he  lacked. 
He  was  ready  to  have  striken  his  tapster  for  interrupting  him  in 


124  THOMAS   NASHE 

attention  of  this  his  so  much  desired  relation,  but  for  fear  of 
displeasing  me  he  moderated  his  fury,  and  only  sending  for  the 
other  fresh  pint,  willed  him  look  to  the  bar,  and  come  when  he 
is  called,  "with,  a  devil's  name  !"  Well,  at  his  earnest  impor- 
tunity, after  I  had  moistened  my  lips  to  make  my  lie  run  glib  to 
his  journey's  end,  forward  I  went  as  followeth.  "It  chanced 
me  the  other  night,  amongst  other  pages,  to  attend  where  the 
King,  with  his  lords  and  many  chief  leaders,  sat  in  counsel : 
there,  amongst  sundry  serious  matters  that  were  debated,  and 
intelHgences  from  the  enemy  given  up,  it  was  privily  informed 
(No  villains  to  these  privy  informers  !)  that  you,  even  you  that 
I  now  speak  to,  had  —  (O  would  I  had  no  tongue  to  tell  the  rest ; 
by  this  drink,  it  grieves  me  so  I  am  not  able  to  repeat  it !) " 
Now  was  my  drunken  lord  ready  to  hang  himself  for  the  end  of 
the  full  point,  and  over  my  neck  he  throws  himself  very  lubberly, 
and  entreated  me,  as  I  was  a  proper  young  gentleman  and  ever 
looked  for  pleasure  at  his  hands,  soon  to  rid  him  out  of  this  hell 
of  suspense,  and  resolve  him  of  the  rest :  then  fell  he  on  his  knees, 
wrung  his  hands,  and  I  think  on  my  conscience,  wept  out  all  the 
cider  that  he  had  drunk  in  a  week  before :  to  move  me  to  have 
pity  on  him,  he  rose  and  put  his  rusty  ring  on  my  finger,  gave 
me  his  greasy  purse  with  that  single  money  that  was  in  it,  prom- 
ised to  make  me  his  heir,  and  a  thousand  more  favours,  if  I  would 
expire  the  misery  of  his  unspeakable  tormenting  uncertainty. 
I,  being  by  nature  inclined  to  Mercie  (for  indeed  I  knew  two  or 
three  good  wenches  of  that  name),  bade  him  harden  his  ears, 
and  not  make  his  eyes  abortive  before  their  time,  and  he  should 
have  the  inside  of  my  breast  turned  outward,  hear  such  a  tale 
as  would  tempt  the  utmost  strength  of  life  to  attend  it  and  not 
die  in  the  midst  of  it.  "Why  (quoth  I)  myself  that  am  but  a 
poor  childish  well-wilier  of  yours,  with  the  very  thought  that  a 
man  of  your  desert  and  state  by  a  number  of  peasants  and  var- 
lets  should  be  so  injuriously  abused  in  hugger  mugger,  have 
wept.  The  wheel  under  our  city  bridge  carries  not  so  much 
water  over  the  city,  as  my  brain  hath  welled  forth  gushing  streams 
of  sorrow.  My  eyes  have  been  drunk,  outrageously  drunk, 
with  giving  but  ordinary  intercourse  through  their  sea-circled 
islands  to  my  distilling  dreariment.     What  shall  I  say  ?  that 


THE    UNFORTUNATE   TRAVELLER  125 

which  mahce  hath  said  is  the  mere  overthrow  and  murder  of 
your  days.  Change  not  your  colour,  none  can  slander  a  clear 
conscience  to  itself ;  receive  all  your  fraught  of  misfortune  in  at 
once. 

"It  is  buzzed  in  the  King's  head  that  you  are  a  secret  friend 
to  the  enemy,  and  under  pretence  of  getting  a  license  to  furnish 
the  camp  with  cider  and  such  Hke  provant,  you  have  furnished 
the  enemy,  and  in  empty  barrels  sent  letters  of  discovery  and  corn 
innumerable." 

I  might  well  have  left  here,  for  by  this  time  his  white  liver  had 
mixed  itself  with  the  white  of  his  eye,  and  both  were  turned  up- 
wards, as  if  they  had  offered  themselves  a  fair  white  for  death 
to  shoot  at.  The  truth  was,  I  was  very  loth  mine  host  and  I 
should  part  with  dry  lips  :  wherefore  the  best  means  that  I  could 
imagine  to  wake  him  out  of  his  trance,  was  to  cry  loud  in  his 
ear,  "Ho,  host,  what's  to  pay  ?  will  no  man  look  to  the  reckoning 
here?"  And  in  plain  verity  it  took  expected  effect,  for  with 
the  noise  he  started  and  bustled,  like  a  man  that  had  been 
scared  with  fire  out  of  his  sleep,  and  ran  hastily  to  his  tapster, 
and  all  to  belaboured  him  about  the  ears,  for  letting  gentlemen 
call  so  long  and  not  look  in  to  them.  Presently  he  remembered 
himself,  and  had  like  to  fall  into  his  memento  again,  but  that  I 
met  him  half  ways  and  asked  his  lordship  what  he  meant  to  slip 
his  neck  out  of  the  collar  so  suddenly,  and,  being  revived,  strike 
his  tapster  so  hastily. 

"Oh  (quoth  he),  I  am  bought  and  sold  for  doing  my  country 
such  good  service  as  I  have  done.  They  are  afraid  of  me,  be- 
cause my  good  deeds  have  brought  me  into  such  estimation  with 
the  commonalty.  I  see,  I  see,  it  is  not  for  the  lamb  to  live  with 
the  wolf." 

"The  world  is  well  amended  (thought  I)  with  your  eldership; 
such  another  forty  years'  nap  together  as  Epimenides  had,  would 
make  you  a  perfect  wise  man."  "Answer  me  (quoth  he),  my 
wise  young  Wilton,  is  it  true  that  I  am  thus  underhand  dead  and 
buried  by  these  bad  tongues?" 

"Nay  (quoth  I),  you  shall  pardon  me,  for  I  have  spoken  too 
much  already ;  no  definitive  sentence  of  death  shall  march  out 
of  my  well-meaning  lips;    they  have  but  lately  sucked  milk, 


126  THOMAS   NASHE 

and  shall  they  so  suddenly  change  their  food  and  seek  after 
blood?" 

"Oh,  but  (quoth  he)  a  man's  friend  is  his  friend  ;  fill  the  other 
pint,  tapster :  what  said  the  King  ?  did  he  believe  it  when  he 
heard  it  ?  I  pray  thee  say ;  I  swear  by  my  nobility,  none  in  the 
world  shall  ever  be  made  privy  that  I  received  any  light  of  this 
matter  by  thee." 

"That  firm  affiance  (quoth  I)  had  I  in  you  before,  or  else  I 
would  never  have  gone  so  far  over  the  shoes,  to  pluck  you  out 
of  the  mire.  Not  to  make  many  words,  (since  you  will  needs 
know,)  the  King  says  flatly,  you  are  a  miser  and  a  snudge,  and  he 
never  hoped  better  of  you."  "Nay,  then  (quoth  he)  question- 
less some  planet  that  loves  not  cider  hath  conspired  against 
me."  "Moreover,  which  is  worse,  the  King  hath  vowed  to  give 
Terouenne  one  hot  breakfast  only  with  the  bungs  that  he  will 
pluck  out  of  your  barrels.  I  cannot  stay  at  this  time  to  report 
each  circumstance  that  passed,  but  the  only  counsel  that  my 
long  cherished  kind  inclination  can  possibly  contrive,  is  now  in 
your  old  days  to  be  liberal :  such  victuals  or  provision  as  you 
have,  presently  distribute  it  frankly  amongst  poor  soldiers ;  I 
would  let  them  burst  their  bellies  with  cider  and  bathe  in  it,  be- 
fore I  would  run  into  my  prince's  ill  opinion  for  a  whole  sea  of  it. 
If  greedy  hunters  and  hungry  tale-tellers  pursue  you,  it  is  for  a 
little  pelf  that  you  have ;  cast  it  behind  you,  neglect  it,  let  them 
have  it,  lest  it  breed  a  farther  inconvenience.  Credit  my  advice, 
you  shall  find  it  prophetical :  and  thus  have  I  discharged  the  part 
of  a  poor  friend."  With  some  few  like  phrases  of  ceremony, 
"Your  Honour's  poor  suppliant,"  and  so  forth,  and  "Farewell, 
my  good  youth,  I  thank  thee  and  will  remember  thee,"  we  parted. 

But  the  next  day  I  think  we  had  a  dole  of  cider,  cider  in  bowls, 
in  scuppets,  in  helmets ;  and  to  conclude,  if  a  man  would  have 
filled  his  boots  full,  there  he  might  have  had  it :  provant  thrust 
itself  into  poor  soldiers'  pockets  whether  they  would  or  no. 
We  made  five  peals  of  shot  into  the  town  together  of  nothing 
but  spiggots  and  faucets  of  discarded  empty  barrels :  every 
under-foot  soldier  had  a  distenanted  tun,  as  Diogenes  had  his 
tub  to  sleep  in.  I  myself  got  as  many  confiscated  tapster's 
aprons  as  made  me  a  tent  as  big  as  any  ordinary  commander's 


THE   UNFORTUNATE  TRAVELLER  127 

in  the  field.  But  in  conclusion,  my  well-beloved  baron  of  double 
beer  got  him  humbly  on  his  mary-bones  to  the  king,  and  com- 
plained he  was  old  and  stricken  in  years,  and  had  never  an  heir 
to  cast  at  a  dog,  wherefore  if  it  might  please  his  Majesty  to  take 
his  lands  into  his  hands,  and  allow  him  some  reasonable  pension 
to  live,  he  should  be  marvellously  well  pleased :  as  for  wars,  he 
was  weary  of  them ;  yet  as  long  as  his  Highness  ventured  his 
own  person,  he  would  not  flinch  a  foot,  but  make  his  withered 
body  a  buckler  to  bear  off  any  blow  advanced  against  him. 

The  King,  marvelling  at  this  alteration  of  his  cider  merchant 
(for  so  he  often  pleasantly  termed  him),  with  a  little  farther 
talk  bolted  out  the  whole  complotment.  Then  was  I  pitifully 
whipped  for  my  holiday  lie,  though  they  made  themselves 
merry  with  it  many  a  winter's  evening  after. 


THE  PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS 

In  the  Similitude  of  a  Dream 

JOHN  BUNYAN 

As  I  walked  through  the  wilderness  of  this  world,  I  lighted  on 

a  certain  place  where  was  a  Den,  and  I  laid  me  down  in  that 

place  to  sleep :    and,  as  I  slept,  I  dreamed  a  dream. 

The  Jail.  ^  r-  7  r-    ; 

I  dreamed,  and  behold  I  saw  a  man  clothed  with  rags, 
standing  in  a  certain  place,  with  his  face  from  his  own  house, 
a  book  in  his  hand,  and  a  great  burden  upon  his  back  (Isa.  Ixiv. 
6;  Luke  xiv.  33;  Ps.  xxxviii.  4;  Hab.  ii.  2;  Acts  xvi.  31).  I 
looked,  and  saw  him  open  the  book  and  read  therein ;  and,  as 
„.  he  read,  he  wept,  and  trembled ;    and  not  being  able 

His  outcry.  .  .  ,  , 

longer  to  contain,  he  brake  out  with  a  lamentable  cry, 
saying,  "What  shall  I  do?"    (Acts  ii.  37.) 

In  this  plight,  therefore,  he  went  home  and  refrained  himself 
as  long  as  he  could,  that  his  wife  and  children  should  not  per- 
ceive his  distress ;  but  he  could  not  be  silent  long,  because  that 
his  trouble  increased.  Wherefore  at  length  he  brake  his  mind 
to  his  wife  and  children ;  and  thus  he  began  to  talk  to  them.  O 
my  dear  wife,  said  he,  and  you  the  children  of  my 

This  world.  -^  '  .  •'       ,  ,  r  1  1 

bowels,  I,  your  dear  friend,  am  in  myself  undone  by 
reason  of  a  burden  that  lieth  hard  upon  me ;  moreover,  I  am  for 
certain  informed  that  this  our  city  will  be  burned  with  fire  from 
heaven,  in  which  fearful  overthrow  both  myself,  with  thee,  my 
wife,  and  you  my  sweet  babes,  shall  miserably  come  to  ruin. 
He  knows  no  ^^^ept  (the  which  yet  I  see  not)  some  way  of  escape 
way  of  es-  can  be  found,  whereby  we  may  be  delivered.  At 
cape  as  yet.  ^^^  j^j^  relations  were  sore  amazed  ;  not  for  that  they 
believed  that  what  he  had  said  to  them  was  true,  but  because 
they   thought   that   some   frenzy   distemper  had   got   into   his 

128 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS 


129 


head ;    therefore,  it  drawing  towards  night,  and  they  hoping 
that  sleep  might  settle  his  brains,  with  all  haste  they  got  him 
to  bed.     But  the  night  was  as  troublesome  to  him  as  the  day ; 
wherefore,  instead  of  sleeping,  he  spent  it  in  sighs  and  tears. 
So,  when  the  morning  was  come,  they  would  knovy  how  he  did. 
He  told  them,  Worse  and  worse :  he  also  set  to  talking  to  them 
again :    but  they  began  to  be  hardened.     They  also  thought 
to  drive  away  his  distemper  by  harsh  and  surly  carriages  to  him ; 
sometimes  they  would  deride,  sometimes  they  would   q^^^^^ 
chide,  and  sometimes  they  would  quite  neglect  him.  physic  for  a 
Wherefore  he  began  to  retire  himself  to  his  chamber,  ^^^   ^°  ' 
to  pray  for  and  pity  them,  and  also  to  condole  his  own  misery ; 
he  would  also  walk  solitarily  in  the  fields,  sometimes  reading,  and 
sometimes  praying :  and  thus  for  some  days  he  spent  his  time. 

Now,  I  saw,  upon  a  time,  when  he  was  walking  in  the  fields, 
that  he  was,  as  he  was  wont,  reading  in  his  book,  and  greatly 
distressed  in  his  mind ;  and  as  he  read,  he  burst  out,  as  he  had 
done  before,  crying,  ''What  shall  I  do  to  be  saved?" 

I  saw  also  that  he  looked  this  way  and  that  way,  as  if  he 
would  run ;  yet  he  Stood  still,  because,  as  I  perceived,  he  could 
not  tell  which  way  to  go.  I  looked  then,  and  saw  a  man  named 
Evangelist  coming  to  him,  who  asked,  Wherefore  dost  thou 
cry?    (Job  xxxiii.  23.) 

He  answered,  Sir,  I  perceive  by  the  book  in  my  hand  that  I 
am  condemned  to  die,  and  after  that  to  come  to  judgment  (Heb. 
ix.  27),  and  I  find  that  I  am  not  willing  to  do  the  first  (Job  xvi. 
21),  nor  able  to  do  the  second  (Ezek.  xxii.  14). 

Then  said  EvangeHst,  Why  not  willing  to  die,  since  this  fife 
is  attended  with  so  many  evils  ?  The  man  answered,  Because 
I  fear  that  this  burden  that  is  upon  my  back  will  sink  me  lower 
than  the  grave,  and  I  shall  fall  into  Tophet  (Isa.  xxx.  33).  And, 
sir,  if  I  be  not  fit  to  go  to  prison,  I  am  not  fit  to  go  to  judgment, 
and  from  thence  to  execution ;  and  the  thoughts  of  conviction 
these  things  make  me  cry.  oftheneces- 

Then  said  Evangelist,  If  this  be  thy  condition,  why  s»tyof  flymg. 
standest  thou  still  ?  He  answered.  Because  I  know  not  whither 
to  go.  Then  he  gave  him  a  parchment  roll,  and  there  was  writ- 
ten within,  "Flee  from  the  wrath  to  come"  (Matt.  iii.  7). 


I30  JOHN   BUNYAN 

The  man  therefore  read  it,  and  looking  upon  Evangelist  very 
carefully,  said,  Whither  must  I  fly  ?  Then  said  Evangelist, 
pointing  with  his  finger  over  a  very  wide  field,  Do  you  see  yonder 
wicket-gate?  (Matt.  vii.  13,  14.)  The  man  said.  No.  Then 
said  the  other.  Do  you  see  yonder  shining  light  ?  (Ps.  cxix. 
105  ;  2  Pet.  i.  19.)  He  said,  I  think  I  do.  Then  said  Evangelist, 
Keep  that  light  in  your  eye,  and  go  up  directly  thereto  :  so  shalt 
Christ  nd  ^^ou  See  the  gate ;  at  which  when  thou  knockest 
the  way  to  it  shall  be  told  thee  what  thou  shalt  do.  So  I  saw 
be"fo^und°*  '^^  "^^  dream  that  the  man  began  to  run.  Now, 
without  the  he  had  not  run  far  from  his  own  door,  but  his  wife 
°^  ■  and  children  perceiving  it,  began  to  cry  after  him  to 

return ;  but  the  man  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  and  ran  on, 
crying.  Life  !  life  !  eternal  life  !  (Luke  xiv.  26.)  So  he  looked 
not  behind  him,  but  fled  towards  the  middle  of  the  plain  (Gen. 
xix.  17). 

The  neighbours  also  came  out  to  see  him  run  (Jer.  xx.  10) ; 
and  as  he  ran,  some  mocked,  others  threatened,  and  some  cried 
They  that  after  him  to  return ;  and,  among  those  that  did  so, 
fly  from  the  there  were  two  that  resolved  to  fetch  him  back  by 
7!^^^  i*i»  a    force.     The  name  of  the  one  was  Obstinate,  and  the 

come,    oTc   a  ' 

gazing-stock  name  of  the  other  Pliable.  Now  by  this  time,  the 
^°  ■  man  was  got  a  good  distance  from  them ;  but,  how- 
ever, they  were  resolved  to  pursue  him,  which  they  did,  and  in 
a  little  time  they  overtook  him.  Then  said  the  man,  Neigh- 
Obstinate  bours,  wherefore  are  ye  come  ?  They  said.  To  per- 
andPUabie  suade  you  to  go  back  with  us.  But  he  said.  That 
can  by  no  means  be ;  you  dwell,  said  he,  in  the  City 
of  Destruction,  the  place  also  where  I  was  born  :  I  see  it  to 
be  so ;  and  dying  there,  sooner  or  later,  you  will  sink  lower  than 
the  grave,  into  a  place  that  burns  with  fire  and  brimstone :  be 
content,  good  neighbours,  and  go  along  with  me. 

Obst.  What !  said  Obstinate,  and  leave  our  friends  and  our 
comforts  behind  us  ? 

Chr.  Yes,  said  Christian  (for  that  was  his  name),  because 
that  ALL  which  you  shall  forsake  is  not  worthy  to  be  compared 
with  a  little  of  that  which  I  am  seeking  to  enjoy  (2  Cor.  iv.  18) ; 
and  if  you  will  go  along  with  me,  and  hold  it,  you  shall  fare  as 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  131 

I  myself ;  for  there,  where  I  go,  is  enough  and  to  spare  (Luke  xv. 
17).     Come  away,  and  prove  my  words. 

Obst.  What  are  the  things  you  seek,  since  you  leave  all  the 
world  to  find  them  ? 

Chr.  I  seek  an  inheritance  incorruptible,  undefiled,  and  that 
fadeth  not  away  (i  Pet.  i.  4),  and  it  is  laid  up  in  heaven,  and  safe 
there  (Heb.  xi.  16),  to  be  bestowed,  at  the  time  appointed,  on 
them  that  diligently  seek  it.     Read  it  so,  if  you  will,  in  my  book. 

Obst.  Tush  !  said  Obstinate,  away  with  your  book.  Will 
you  go  back  with  us  or  no  ? 

Chr.  No,  not  I,  said  the  other,  because  I  have  laid  my  hand 
to  the  plough  (Luke  ix.  62). 

Obst.  Come  then,  neighbour  Pliable,  let  us  turn  again, 
and  go  home  without  him ;  there  is  a  company  of  these  crazy- 
headed  coxcombs,  that,  when  they  take  a  fancy  by  the  end,  are 
wiser  in  their  own  eyes  than  seven  men  that  can  render  a  reason 
(Prov.  xxvi.  16). 

Pli.  Then  said  Pliable,  Don't  revile ;  if  what  the  good  Chris- 
tian says  is  true,  the  things  he  looks  after  are  better  than  ours : 
my  heart  inclines  to  go  with  my  neighbour. 

Obst.  What  !  more  fools  still !  Be  ruled  by  me,  and  go  back ; 
who  knows  whither  such  a  brain-sick  fellow  will  lead  you  ? 
Go  back,  go  back,  and  be  wise. 

Chr.   Nay,  but  do  thou  come  with  thy  neighbour,  Pliable ; 
there  are  such  things  to  be  had  which  I  spoke  of, 
and  many  more  glories  besides.     If  you  believe  not  and  obsti- 
me,  read  here  in  this  book  ;  and  for  the  truth  of  what  ^f*®,?"^^  ^°^ 

Pliable  s 

is  expressed  therein,  behold  all  is  confirmed  by  the  soul, 
blood  of  Him  that  made  it  (Heb.  ix.  17-21). 

Pli.  Well,  neighbour  Obstinate,  said  Phable,  I  begin  to  come 
to  a  point ;   I  intend  to  go  along  with  this  good  man, 

^  '  r       1  .  ,  ,  Pbable  con- 

and  to  cast  in  my  lot  with  him ;   but,  my  good  com-   tented  to  go 
panion,  do  you  know  the  way  to  this  desired  place  ? 

Chr.   I   am   directed  by   a  man,   whose  name   is 
Evangelist,  to  speed  me  to  a  little  gate  that  is  before  us,  where 
we  shall  receive  instructions  about  the  way. 

Pli.  Come,  then,  good  neighbour,  let  us  be  going.  Then 
they  went  both  together. 


with  Chris- 
tian. 


132  JOHN   BUNYAN 

Obst.   And  I  will  go  back  to  my  place,  said  Obstinate ;    I 
will   be   no   companion   of   such   misled,    fantastical 

Obstinate  '^ 

goes  raUing     felloWS. 

^^^^  Now,  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that,  when  Obstinate 

was  gone  back,   Christian  and  Pliable  went  talking  over  the 

plain ;    and  thus  they  began  their  discourse, 
tween^  Chr.    Come,  neighbour  Pliable,  how  do  you  do? 

Christian       X  am  glad  you  are  persuaded  to  go  along  with  me. 
Had  even  Obstinate  himself  but  felt  what  I  have  felt 
of  the  powers  and  terrors  of  what  is  yet  unseen,  he  would  not 
thus  lightly  have  given  us  the  back. 

Pli.  Come,  neighbour  Christian,  since  there  are  none  but  us 
two  here,  tell  me  now  further  what  the  things  are,  and  how  to 
be  enjoyed,  whither  we  are  going. 

Chr.  I  can  better  conceive  of  them  with  my  mind,  than 
God's  things  speak  of  them  with  my  tongue ;  but  yet,  since  you 
unspeak-  are  desirous  to  know,  I  will  read  of  them  in  my 
^^^^-  book. 

Now,  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  just  as  they  had  ended  this 
talk  they  drew  near  to  a  very  mir>'  slough,  that  was  in  the 
The  Slough  midst  of  the  plain ;  and  they,  being  heedless,  did 
of  Despond,  j^q^-j^  f^^^  suddenly  into  the  bog.  The  name  of  the 
slough  was  Despond.  Here,  therefore,  they  wallowed  for  a 
time,  being  grievously  bedaubed  with  the  dirt;  and  Christian, 
because  of  the  burden  that  was  on  his  back,  began  to  sink  in  the 
mire. 

Pli.  Then  said  Pliable,  Ah  !  neighbour  Christian,  where  are 
you  now  ? 

Chr.    Truly,  said  Christian,  I  do  not  know. 

Pli.  At  this  Pliable  began  to  be  offended,  and  angrily  said 
to  his  fellow,  Is  this  the  happiness  you  have  told  me  all  this 
while  of  ?  If  we  have  such  ill  speed  at  our  first  setting  out,  what 
may  we  expect  betwixt  this  and  our  journey's  end  ?  May  I 
itsn  t  S^'^  ^^^  again  with  my  Hfc,  you  shall  possess  the 
enough  to  brave  country  alone  for  me.  And,  with  that,  he 
bepUabie.  ^^^,^  ^  desperate  struggle  or  two,  and  got  out  of  the 
mire  on  that  side  of  the  slough  which  was  next  to  his  own  house 
so  awav  he  went,  and  Christian  saw  him  no  more. 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  133 

Wherefore  Christian  was  left  to  tumble  in  the  Slough  of  De- 
spond  alone :     but   still  he  endeavoured  to  struggle 
to  that  side  of  the  slough  that  was  still  further  from  trouble 
his  own  house,   and  next  to   the  wicket-gate ;    the  ^^^'^^  ^!^^  ^° 

,,.,,.,,  ,  ,  ,  r  set  further 

which  he  did,  but  could  not  get  out,  because  of  the  from  his 
burden  that  was  upon  his  back :   but  I  beheld  in  my  ^"^^  house, 
dream,  that  a  man  came  to  him,  whose  name  was  Help,  and 
asked  him.  What  he  did  there  ? 

Chr.  Sir,  said  Christian,  I  was  bid  go  this  way  by  a  man 
called  Evangelist,  who  directed  me  also  to  yonder  gate,  that  I 
might  escape  the  wrath  to  come ;  and  as  I  was  going  thither  I 
fell  in  here.  ^  The  Prom- 

Help.    But  why  did  not  you  look  for  the  steps  ?       i^es. 

Chr.  Fear  followed  me  so  hard,  that  I  fled  the  next  way  and 
fell  in. 

Help.    Then  said  he.  Give  me  thy  hand :   so  he  gave  him  his 
hand,  and  he  drew  him  out,  and  set  him  upon  sound  Help  lifts 
ground,   and    bid  him    go    on  his    way    (Ps.   xl.    2).  him  up. 

Then  I  stepped  to  him  that  plucked  him  out,  and  said.  Sir, 
wherefore,  since  over  this  place  is  the  way  from  the  City  of 
Destruction  to  yonder  gate,  is  it  that  this  plat  is  not  mended, 
that  poor  travellers  might  go  thither  with  more  security  ?  And 
he  said  unto  me.  This  miry  slough  is  such  a  place  as  cannot  be 
mended ;  it  is  the  descent  whither  the  scum  and  filth  ^^^^  ^^^^^^ 
that  attends  conviction  for  sin  doth  continually  run,  theSiough 
and  therefore  it  is  called  the  Slough  of  Despond ;  for  °^  Despond, 
still,  as  the  sinner  is  awakened  about  his  lost  condition,  there 
ariseth  in  his  soul  many  fears,  and  doubts,  and  discouraging 
apprehensions,  which  all  of  them  get  together,  and  settle  in  this 
place.     And  this  is  the  reason  of  the  badness  of  this  ground. 

It  is  not  the  pleasure  of  the  King  that  this  place  should 
remain  so  bad  (Isa.  xxxv.  3,  4).  His  labourers  also  have,  by 
the  direction  of  His  Majesty's  surveyors,  been  for  above  these 
sixteen  hundred  years  employed  about  this  patch  of  ground,  if 
perhaps  it  might  have  been  mended  :  yea,  and  to  my  knowledge, 
said  he,  here  have  been  swallowed  up  at  least  twenty  thousand 
cart-loads,  yea,  milHons  of  wholesome  instructions,  that  have 
at  all  seasons  been  brought  from  all  places  of  the  King's  domin- 


134  JOHN  BUNYAN 

ions,  and  they  that  can  tell,  say  they  are  the  best  materials  to 
make  good  ground  of  the  place ;  if  so  be,  it  might  have  been 
mended,  but  it  is  the  Slough  of  Despond  still,  and  so  will  be  when 
they  have  done  what  they  can. 

True,  there  are,  by  the  direction  of  the  Lawgiver,  certain  good 
and  substantial  steps,  placed  even  through  the  very 
ises  of  midst  of  the  slough ;    but  at  such  time  as  this  place 

forgiveness  (^oth  much  spcw  out  its  filth,  as  it  doth  against  change 
ance  to  life  of  weather,  these  steps  are  hardly  seen ;  or,  if  they 
by  faith  in      ^^    men,  through  the  dizziness  of  their  heads,  step 

Christ.  J  '  o  ^  'I 

beside,  and  then  they  are  bemired  to  purpose,  not- 
withstanding the  steps  be  there ;  but  the  ground  is  good  when 
they  are  once  got  in  at  the  gate  (i  Sam.  xii.  23) 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  when  they  ^  were  got  out  of 
the  wilderness,  they  presently  saw  a  town  before  them,  and  the 
name  of  that  town  is  Vanity ;  and  at  the  town  there  is  a  fair 
kept,  called  Vanity  Fair :  it  is  kept  all  the  year  long  ;  it  beareth 
the  name  of  Vanity  Fair,  because  the  town  where  it  is  kept  is 
hghter  than  vanity ;  and  also  because  all  that  is  there  sold,  or 
that  Cometh  thither,  is  vanity.  As  is  the  saying  of  the  wise,  "  all 
that  cometh2'5vanity"(Eccles.i.  2,14;  ii.  11,17;  xi-8;  Isa.xH.  29). 

This  fair  is  no  new-erected  business,  but  a  thing  of  ancient 
standing;    I  will  show  you  the  original  of  it. 

Almost  five  thousand  years  agone,  there  were  pilgrims  walk- 
The  antiq-  ^^S  to  the  Celestial  City,  as  these  two  honest  persons 
uity  of  this  are  :  and  Beelzebub,  Apollyon,  and  Legion,  with  their 
^'  companions,  perceiving  by  the  path  that  the  pilgrims 

made,  that  their  way  to  the  city  lay  through  this  town  of  Vanity, 
they  contrived  here  to  set  up  a  fair;  a  fair  wherein  should  be 
sold  all  sorts  of  vanity,  and  that  it  should  last  all  the  year  long : 
therefore  at  this  fair  are  all  such  merchandise  sold. 

The  mer-  ' 

chandise  of  as  houscs,  lands,  trades,  places,  honours,  preferments, 
this  fair.  titles,  countries,  kingdoms,  lusts,  pleasures,  and  de- 
lights of  all  sorts,  as  whores,  bawds,  wives,  husbands,  children, 
masters,  servants,  lives,  blood,  bodies,  souls,  silver,  gold,  pearls, 
precious  stones,  and  what  not. 

And,  moreover,  at  this  fair  there  is  at  all  times  to  be  seen 

'  Christian  and  Faithful. 


THE    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  135 

juggling,  cheats,  games,  plays,  fools,  apes,  knaves,  and  rogues, 
and  that  of  every  kind. 

Here  are  to  be  seen,  too,  and  that  for  nothing,  thefts,  murders, 
adulteries,  false  swearers,  and  that  of  a  blood-red  colour. 

And  as  in  other  fairs  of  less  moment,  there  are  the  several 
rows  and  streets,  under  their  proper  names,  where  such  and  such 
wares  are  vended ;  so  here  likewise  you  have  the  proper  places, 
rows,  streets  (viz.  countries  and  kingdoms),  where  the  wares 
of  this  fair  are  soonest  to  be  found.  Here  is  the  Britain 
Row,  the  French  Row,  the  Italian  Row,  the  Spanish  The  streets 
Row,  the  German  Row,  where  several  sorts  of  vanities  o^  ^^^^  fair, 
are  to  be  sold.  But,  as  in  other  fairs,  some  one  commodity  is 
as  the  chief  of  all  the  fair,  so  the  ware  of  Rome  and  her  merchan- 
dise is  greatly  promoted  in  this  fair ;  only  our  English  nation, 
with  some  others,  have  taken  a  dislike  thereat. 

Now,  as  I  said,  the  way  to  the  Celestial  City  lies  just  through 
this  town  where  this  lusty  fair  is  kept ;  and  he  that  will  go  to  the 
City,  and  yet  not  go  through  this  town,  must  needs  Christ  went 
"go  out  of  the  world"  (i  Cor.  v.  10).     The  Prince  through  this 
of  princes  himself,  when  here,  went  through  this  town    ^' 
to  his  own  country,  and  that  upon  a  fair  day  too ;   yea,  and  as 
I  think,  it  was  Beelzebub,  the  chief  lord  of  this  fair,  that  invited 
him  to  buy  of  his  vanities ;   yea,  would  have  made  ^^^^^ 
him  lord  of  the  fair,  would  he  but  have  done  him  rev-  bought 
erence  as  he  went  through  the  town  (Matt.  iv.  8;  ^^l^'"^ 
Luke  iv.  5-7).     Yea,  because  he  was  such  a  person 
of  honour,  Beelzebub  had  him  from  street  to  street,  and  showed 
him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  in  a  little  time,  that  he  might, 
if  possible,  allure  the  Blessed  One  to  cheapen  and  buy  ThePii- 
some  of  his  vanities;    but  he  had  no  mind   to  the  gnms  enter 
merchandise,   and   therefore  left  the   town,   without      ^  ^■ 
laying  out  so  much  as  one  farthing  upon  these  vanities.     This 
fair,  therefore,  is  an  ancient  thing,  of  long  standing,  and  a  very 
great  fair.     Now  these  pilgrims,  as  I  said,  must  needs  xhefairina 
go  through  this  fair.    Well,  so  they  did  :  but,  behold,  hu^bub^^^ 
even  as  they  entered  into  the  fair,  all  the  people  in 
the  fair  were  moved,  and  the  town  itself  as  it  were  in  a  hubbub 
about  them ;  and  that  for  several  reasons  :   for  — 


136  JOHN   BUNYAN 

First,  The  pilgrims  were  clothed  with  such  kind  of  raiment 
as  was  diverse  from  the  raiment  of  any  that  traded  in  that  fair. 
The  first  The  people,  therefore,  of  the  fair,  made  a  great  gazing 
cause  of  the  upon  them :  some  said  they  were  fools,  some  they 
were  bedlams,  and  some  they  are  outlandish  men 
(i  Cor.  ii.  7,  8). 

Secondly,  And  as  they  wondered  at  their  apparel,  so  they  did 
Second  likewise  at  their  speech ;    for  few  could  understand 

cause  of  the  what  they  said ;  they  naturally  spoke  the  language 
of  Canaan,  but  they  that  kept  the  fair  were  the  men 
of  this  world ;  so  that,  from  one  end  of  the  fair  to  the  other, 
they  seemed  barbarians  each  to  the  other. 

Thirdly,  But  that  which  did  not  a  little  amuse  the  merchan- 
disers was,  that  these  pilgrims  set  very  light  by  all  their  wares ; 
Third  cause  ^^^Y  Cared  not  so  much  as  to  look  upon  them  ;  and  if 
of  the  they  called  upon  them  to  buy,  they  would  put  their 

"  "  ■  fingers  in  their  ears,  and  cry,  "Turn  away  mine  eyes 
from  beholding  vanity,"  and  look  upwards,  signifying  that  their 
trade  and  traffic  was  in  heaven  (Ps.  cxix.  37  ;  Phil.  iii.  19,  20). 

One  chanced  mockingly,  beholding  the  carriage  of  the  men, 
Fourth  ^o  S3,y  unto  them,  What  will  ye  buy  ?     But  they, 

cause  of  the  looking  gravely  upon  him,  answered,  "We  buy  the 
truth"  (Prov.  xxiii.  23).  At  that  there  was  an 
occasion  taken  to  despise  the  men  the  more ;  some  mocking, 
They  are  some  taunting,  some  speaking  reproachfully,  and 
mocked.  some  calling  upon  others  to  smite  them.  At  last 
things  came  to  a  hubbub  and  great  stir  in  the  fair,  insomuch 
The  fair  in  a  that  all  order  was  confounded.  Now  was  word 
hubbub.  presently  brought  to  the  great  one  of  the  fair,  who 
quickly  came  down,  and  deputed  some  of  his  most  trusty  friends 
They  are  to  take  thcsc  men  into  examination,  about  whom 
examined.  ^\^q  fg^jj.  ^^^  almost  Overturned.  So  the  men  were 
brought  to  examination;  and  they  that  sat  upon  them,  asked 
They  tell  them  whence  they  came,  whither  they  went,  and  what 
ar'e^and^  they  did  there,  in  such  an  unusual  garb?  The  men 
whence  they  told  them  that  they  were  pilgrims  and  strangers  in 
came.  ^^le  world,  and  that  they  were  going  to  their  own 

country,  which  was  the  heavenly  Jerusalem  (Heb.  xi.  13-16) ; 


THE   PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS  137 

and  that  they  had  given  no  occasion  to  the  men  of  the  town, 
nor  yet  to  the  merchandisers,  thus  to  abuse  them,  and  to  let 
them  in  their  journey,  except  it  was  for  that,  when  They  are  not 
one  asked  them  what  they  would  buy,  they  said  they  Relieved, 
would  buy  the  truth.  But  they  that  were  appointed  to  examine 
them  did  not  believe  them  to  be  any  other  than  bed-  They  are  put 
lams  and  mad,  or  else  such  as  came  to  put  all  things  ^"  *^^  *^^g^- 
into  a  confusion  in  the  fair.  Therefore  they  took  them  and  beat 
them,  and  besmeared  them  with  dirt,  and  then  put  them  into 
the  cage,  that  they  might  be  made  a  spectacle  to  all  the  men 
of  the  fair. 

Behold  Vanity  Fair  !  the  Pilgrims  there 

Are  chained  and  stand  beside : 
Even  so  it  was  our  Lord  passed  here, 

And  on  Mount  Calvary  died. 

There,  therefore,  they  lay  for  some  time,  and  were  made  the 
objects  of  any  man's  sport,  or  malice,  or  revenge,  the  great  one 
of  the  fair  laughing  still  at  all  that  befell  them.  But  ^j^^.^ 
the  men  being  patient,  and  not  rendering  railing  for  behaviour 
railing,  but  contrariwise,  blessing,  and  giving  good  ^^  ^^^  '^^^®' 
words  for  bad,  and  kindness  for  injuries  done,  some  men  in  the 
fair  that  were  more  observing,  and  less  prejudiced  than  the 
rest,  began  to  check  and  blame  the  baser  sort  for  their 

.  ,       ,  1  11  .1  ^1  The  men  of 

contmual  abuses  done  by  them  to  the  men ;    they,   the  fair  do 
therefore,  in  angry  manner,  let  fly  at   them   again,   fallout 

11  •         1  J    among 

countmg  them  as  bad  as  the  men  m  the  cage,  and  themselves 
telling   them  that    they    seemed    confederates,    and  f^out  these 

.  .   .  mi        *^°  men. 

should  be  made  partakers  of  their  misfortunes.     The 
other  repHed,  that  for  aught  they  could  see,  the  men  were  quiet, 
and  sober,  and  intended  nobody  any  harm ;   and  that  there  were 
many  that  traded  in  their  fair  that  were  more  worthy  They  are 
to  be  put  into  the  cage,  yea,  and  pillory  too,  than  ^^^^J^  *^f 
were  the  men  they  had  abused.     Thus,  after  divers  this  dis- 
words  had  passed  on  both  sides,  the  men  behaving  t^rbance. 
themselves  all  the  while  very  wisely  and  soberly  before  them, 
they  fell  to  some  blows  among  themselves,  and  did  harm  one  to 
another.     Then  were  these  two  poor  men  brought  before  their 


138  JOHN   BUNYAN 

examiners  again,  and  there  charged  as  being  guilty  of  the  late 

hubbub  that  had  been  in  the  fair.  So  they  beat 
i^ed^up^l^d  them  pitifully,  and  hanged  irons  upon  them,  and 
down  the  led  them  in  chains  up  and  down  the  fair,  for  an 
chiin".  for  example  and  a  terror  to  others,  lest  any  should 
a  terror  to      speak  in  their  behalf,  or  join  themselves~unto  them. 

But  Christian  and  Faithful  behaved  themselves  yet 
more  wisely,  and  received  the  ignominy  and  shame  that  was 

cast  upon  them,  with  so  much  meekness  and  patience, 

meTof'^the^   tliat  it  wou  to  their  side,  though  but  few  in  compari- 

fair  won  to     ^on  of  the  rest,  several  of  the  men  in  the  fair.     This 

^™  put  the  other  party  yet  into  greater  rage,  insomuch 

that  they  concluded  the  death  of  these  two  men.     Wherefore 

they  threatened,  that  neither  cage  nor  irons  should 
saries  re-  serve  their  turn,  but  that  they  should  die,  for  the  abuse 
solve  to  kiu  they  had  done,  and  for  deluding  the  men  of  the  fair. 
Then  were  they  remanded  to  the  cage  again,  until 
further  order  should  be  taken  with  them.  So  they  put  them 
in,  and  made  their  feet  fast  in  the  stocks. 

Here,  therefore,  they  called  again  to  mind  what  they  had 
heard  from  their  faithful  friend  Evangelist,  and  were  the  more 
confirmed  in  their  way  and  sufferings,  by  what  he  told  them 
would  happen  to  them.  They  also  now  comforted  each  other, 
that  whose  lot  it  was  to  suffer,  even  he  should  have  the  best  of 
it ;  therefore  each  man  secretly  wished  that  he  might  have  that 
preferment :   but  committing  themselves  to  the  all-wise  disposal 

of  Him  that  ruleth  all  things,  with  much  content,  they 

They  are  i       i     •      ^i  i-   •         •  ,  •   1       1  mi 

again  put       abode  m  the  condition  in  which  they  were,  until  they 
into  the         should  be  otherwise  disposed  of. 

cage,  and  ,  .  . 

after  1  hen   a   convenient   time   being    appointed,    they 

brought  to  brought  them  forth  to  their  trial,  in  order  to  their 
condemnation.  When  the  time  was  come,  they  were 
brouglit  before  their  enemies  and  arraigned.  The  Judge's  name 
was  Lord  Hate-good.  Their  indictment  was  one  and  the  same 
Their  hi  substance,  though  somewhat  varying  in  form,  the 

indictment,     contents  whereof  were  this  :  — 

"That  they  were  enemies  to  and  disturbers  of  their  trade; 
that  tht  y  had  made  commotions  and  divisions  in  the  town,  and 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  139 

had  won  a  party  to  their  own  most  dangerous  opinions,  in  con- 
tempt of  the  law  of  their  prince." 

Now,  Faithful,  play  the  man,  speak  for  thy  God : 
Fear  not  the  wicked's  malice,  nor  their  rod : 
Speak  boldly,  man,  the  truth  is  on  thy  side  : 
Die  for  it,  and  to  life  in  triumph  ride. 

Then  Faithful  began  to  answer,  that  he  had  only  set  himself 
against  that  which  hath  set  itself  against  Him  that  is  higher 
than  the  highest.     And,  said  he,  as  for  disturbance,  p^jthfui's 
I  make  none,  being  myself  a  man  of  peace;     the  answer  for 
parties  that  were  won  to  us,  were  won  by  beholding  '^^^^  " 
our  truth  and  innocence,  and  they  are  only  turned  from  the 
worse  to  the  better.     And  as  to  the  king  you  talk  of,  since  he  is 
Beelzebub,  the  enemy  of  our  Lord,  I  defy  him  and  all  his  angels. 

Then  proclamation  was  made,  that  they  that  had  aught  to 
say  for  their  lord  the  king  against  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  should 
forthwith  appear  and  give  in  their  evidence.  So  there  came  in 
three  witnesses,  to  wit.  Envy,  Superstition,  and  Pickthank. 
They  were  then  asked  if  they  knew  the  prisoner  at  the  bar ; 
and  what  they  had  to  say  for  their  lord  the  king  against  him. 

Then  stood  forth  Envy,  and   said    to    this  effect : 
My  Lord,  I  have  known  this  man  a  long  time,  and 
will  attest  upon  my  oath  before    this  honourable  bench   that 
he  is 

Judge.  Hold  !  Give  him  his  oath.  (So  they  sware  him.) 
Then  he  said  — 

Envy.  My  Lord,  this  man,  notwithstanding  his  plausible  name, 
is  one  of  the  vilest  men  in  our  country.  He  neither  regardeth 
prince  nor  people,  law  nor  custom ;  but  doth  all  that  he  can  to 
possess  all  men  with  certain  of  his  disloyal  notions,  which  he  in 
the  general  calls  principles  of  faith  and  holiness.  And,  in  par- 
ticular, I  heard  him  once  myself  affirm  that  Christianity  and  the 
customs  of  our  town  of  Vanity  were  diametrically  opposite, 
and  could  not  be  reconciled.  By  which  saying,  my  Lord,  he 
doth  at  once  not  only  condemn  all  our  laudable  doings,  but  us 
in  the  doing  of  them. 

Judge.  Then  did  the  Judge  say  to  him,  Hast  thou  any  more 
to  say  ? 


I40  JOHN   BUNYAN 

Envy.  My  Lord,  I  could  say  much  more,  only  I  would  not 
be  tedious  to  the  court.  Yet,  if  need  be,  when  the  other  gentle- 
men have  given  in  their  evidence,  rather  than  anything  shall 
be  wanting  that  will  despatch  him,  I  will  enlarge  my  testimony 
against  him.     So  he  was  bid  to  stand  by. 

Then  they  called  Superstition,  and  bid  him  look  upon  the 
prisoner.  They  also  asked,  what  he  could  say  for  their  lord 
the  king  against  him.     Then  they  sware  him ;   so  he  began. 

Super.  My  Lord,  I  have  no  great  acquaintance  with  this 
man,  nor  do  I  desire  to  have  further  knowledge  of  him  ;  however, 
Supersti-  this  I  know,  that  he  is  a  very  pestilent  fellow,  from 
tion  foUows.  some  discourse  that,  the  other  day,  I  had  with  him 
in  this  town ;  for  then,  talking  with  him,  I  heard  him  say,  that 
our  religion  was  nought,  and  such  by  which  a  man  could  by  no 
means  please  God.  Which  sayings  of  his,  my  Lord,  your  Lord- 
ship very  well  knows,  what  necessarily  thence  will  follow,  to  wit, 
that  we  do  still  worship  in  vain,  are  yet  in  our  sins,  and  finally 
shall  be  damned ;   and  this  is  that  which  I  have  to  say. 

Then  was  Pickthank  sworn,  and  bid  say  what  he  knew,  in 
behalf  of  their  lord  the  king,  against  the  prisoner  at  the  bar. 

Pick.  My  Lord,  and  you  gentlemen  all.  This  fellow  I  have 
known  of  a  long  time,  and  have  heard  him  speak  things  that 
Pickthank's  ought  not  to  be  spokc ;  for  he  hath  railed  on  our  noble 
testimony,  prince  Bcclzebub,  and  hath  spoken  contemptibly  of 
his  honourable  friends,  whose  names  are  the  Lord  Old  Man,  the 
Lord  Carnal  Delight,  the  Lord  Luxurious,  the  Lord  Desire  of  Vain 
Sins  ar  all  ^^^^Y^  ^V  ^^^  Lord  Lechery,  Sir  Having  Greedy,  with 
lords,  and  all  the  rest  of  our  nobihty ;  and  he  hath  said,  more- 
great  ones.  QyQY,  That  if  all  men  were  of  his  mind,  if  possible, 
there  is  not  one  of  these  noblemen  should  have  any  longer  a 
being  in  this  town.  Besides,  he  hath  not  been  afraid  to  rail  on 
you,  my  Lord,  who'are  now  appointed  to  be  his  judge,  calhng  you 
an  ungodly  villain,  with  many  other  such  like  vilifying  terms, 
with  which  he  hath  bespattered  most  of  the  gentry  of  our  town. 

When  this  Pickthank  had  told  his  tale,  the  Judge  directed  his 
speech  to  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  saying.  Thou  runagate,  heretic, 
and  traitor,  hast  thou  heard  what  these  honest  gentlemen  have 
witnessed  against  thee  ? 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  141 

Faith.    May  I  speak  a  few  words  in  my  own  defence  ? 

Judge.  Sirrah  !  Sirrah  !  thou  deservest  to  live  no  longer,  but 
to  be  slain  immediately  upon  the  place ;  yet,  that  all  men  may 
see  our  gentleness  towards  thee,  let  us  hear  what  thou,  vile  runa- 
gate, hast  to  say. 

Faith,  i.  I  say,  then,  in  answer  to  what  Mr.  Envy  hath 
spoken,  I  never  said  aught  but  this,  That  what  rule,  ^  .,^,  „ 

^  ,  r,  Faithful's 

or  laws,  or  customs,  or  people,  were  flat  agamst  the  defence  of 
Word  of  God,  are  diametrically  opposite  to  Chris-  ^'^^^i*- 
tianity.     If  I  have  said  amiss  in  this,  convince  me  of  my  error, 
and  I  am  ready  here  before  you  to  make  my  recantation. 

2.  As  to  the  second,  to  wit,  Mr.  Superstition,  and  his  charge 
against  me,  I  said  only  this,  That  in  the  worship  of  God  there  is 
required  a  Divine  faith ;  but  there  can  be  no  Divine  faith  with- 
out a  Divine  revelation  of  the  will  of  God.  Therefore,  what- 
ever is  thrust  into  the  worship  of  God  that  is  not  agreeable  to 
Divine  revelation,  cannot  be  done  but  by  a  human  faith,  which 
faith  will  not  be  profitable  to  eternal  life. 

3.  As  to  what  Mr.  Pick  thank  hath  said,  I  say  (avoiding  terms, 
as  that  I  am  said  to  rail,  and  the  like),  that  the  prince  of  this 
town,  with  all  the  rabblement,  his  attendants,  by  this  gentleman 
named,  are  more  fit  for  a  being  in  hell,  than  in  this  town  and 
country  :  and  so,  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  me  ! 

Then  the  Judge  called  to  the  jury  (who  all  this  while  stood 
by,  to  hear  and  observe)  :  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  see  this 
man  about  whom  so  great  an  uproar  hath  been  made  ^j^^  ludge's 
in  this  town.  You  have  also  heard  what  these  worthy  speech  to 
gentlemen  have  witnessed  against  him.  Also  you  *^®  ^^^^' 
have  heard  his  reply  and  confession.  It  lieth  now  in  your 
breasts  to  hang  him  or  save  his  life ;  but  yet  I  think  meet  to 
instruct  you  into  our  law. 

There  was  an  Act  made  in  the  days  of  Pharaoh  the  Great, 
servant  to  our  prince,  that  lest  those  of  a  contrary  religion  should 
multiply  and  grow  too  strong  for  him,  their  males  should  be 
thrown  into  the  river  (Exod.  i.  22).  There  was  also  an  Act 
made  in  the  days  of  Nebuchadnezzar  the  Great,  another  of  his 
servants,  that  whosoever  would  not  fall  down  and  worship  his 
golden  image,  should  be  thrown  into  a  fiery  furnace  (Dan.  iii.  6). 


142  JOHN   BUNYAN 

There  was  also  an  Act  made  in  the  days  of  Darius,  that  whoso, 
for  some  time,  called  upon  any  god  but  him,  should  be 
cast  into  the  Uons'  den  (Dan.  vi).  Now  the  substance  of 
these  laws  this  rebel  has  broken,  not  only  in  thought  (which  is 
not  to  be  borne),  but  also  in  word  and  deed ;  which  must  there- 
fore needs  be  intolerable. 

For  that  of  Pharaoh,  his  law  was  made  upon  a  supposition, 
to  prevent  mischief,  no  crime  being  yet  apparent ;  but  here  is 
a  crime  apparent.  For  the  second  and  third,  you  see  he  dis- 
puteth  against  our  religion ;  and  for  the  treason  he  hath  con- 
fessed, he  deserveth  to  die  the  death. 

Then  went  the  jury  out,  whose  names  were,  Mr.  Bhnd-man, 
Mr.  No-good,  Mr.  MaHce,  Mr.  Love-lust,  Mr.  Live-loose,  Mr. 
Heady,  Mr.  High-mind,  Mr.  Enmity,  Mr.  Liar,  Mr. 
The  jury,  Cruelty,  Mr.  Hate-light,  and  Mr.  Implacable;  who 
names.  every  one  gave  in  his  private  verdict  against  him 

among  themselves,  and  afterwards  unanimously  con- 
cluded to  bring  him  in  guilty  before  the  Judge.  And  first, 
among  themselves,  Mr.  Bhnd-man,  the  foreman,  said,  I  see 
,     clearly  that  this  man  is  a  heretic.     Then  said  Mr. 

Every  one's  •' 

private  ver-  No-good,  Away  With  such  a  fellow  from  the  earth. 
^^^^  Ay,  said  Mr.  Malice,  for  I  hate  the  very  looks  of 

him.  Then  said  Mr.  Love-lust,  I  could  never  endure  him. 
Nor  I,  said  Mr.  Live-loose,  for  he  would  always  be  condemning 
my  way.  Hang  him,  hang  him,  said  Mr.  Heady.  A  sorry  scrub, 
said  Mr.  High-mind.  My  heart  riseth  against  him,  said  Mr. 
Enmity.  He  is  a  rogue,  said  Mr.  Liar.  Hanging  is  too  good 
for  him,  said  Mr.  Cruelty.  Let  us  despatch  him  out  of  the  way. 
They  con-  said  Mr.  Hate-Ught.  Then  said  Mr.  Implacable, 
elude  to  Might  I  have  all  the  world  given  me,  I  could  not 
guuty  of  be  reconciled  to  him ;  therefore,  let  us  forthwith 
death,  bring   him   in  guilty  of   death.     And   so   they   did ; 

therefore  he  was  presently  condemned  to  be  had  from  the  place 
where  he  was,  to  the  place  from  whence  he  came,  and  there  to  be 
The  cruel       P^^  ^°  ^^^  most  cruel  death  that  could  be  invented, 
death  of  They,  therefore,  brought  him  out,  to  do  with  him 

Faithful.  according  to  their  law  ;  and,  first,  they  scourged  him, 
then  they  buffeted  him,  then  they  lanced  his  flesh  with  knives ; 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  143 

after  that,  they  stoned  him  with  stones,  then  pricked  him  with 
their  swords ;  and,  last  of  all,  they  burned  him  to  ashes  at  the 
stake.     Thus  came  Faithful  to  his  end.  a  chariot 

Now  I  saw  that  there  stood  behind  the  multitude  *°*^  horses 

wflit  to  t3.k6 

a  chariot  and  a  couple  of  horses,  waiting  for  Faith-  away  Faith- 
ful, who  (so  soon  as  his  adversaries  had  despatched  *"^- 
him)  was  taken  up  into  it,   and  straightway  was  carried  up 
through  the  clouds,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  the  nearest  way  to 
the  celestial  gate. 

Brave  Faithful,  bravely  done  in  word  and  deed ; 
Judge,  witnesses,  and  jury  have,  instead 
Of  overcoming  thee,  but  shown  their  rage : 
When  they  are  dead,  thou'lt  live  from  age  to  age. 

But  as  for  Christian,  he  had  some  respite,  and  was  remanded 
back  to  prison.  So  he  there  remained  for  a  space ;  but  He 
that  overrules  all  things,  having  the  power  of  their  christian 
rage  in  his  own  hand,  so  wrought  it  about,  that  i^  still  aUve. 
Christian  for  that  time  escaped  them,  and  went  his  way ;  and 
as  he  went,  he  sang,  saying  — 


Well,  Faithful,  thou  hast  faithfully  profest 

Unto  thy  Lord  ;   with  whom  thou  shalt  be  blest,  ^hat  Chris- 

When  faithless  ones,  with  all  their  vain  delights,  tian  made 

Are  crying  out  under  their  hellish  pHghts  :  of  Faithful 

Sing,  Faithful,  sing,  and  let  thy  name  survive ; 

For,  though  they  killed  thee,  thou  art  yet  alive. 


The  Song 


after  his 
death. 


Now  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  Christian  went  not  forth  alone, 
for  there  was  one  whose  name  was  Hopeful  (being  made  so  by 
the   beholding   of    Christian   and    Faithful   in    their  (.jj^jg^i^j^ 
words  and  behaviour,  in  their  sufferings  at  the  Fair) ,  has  another 
who  joined  himself  unto  him,  and,  entering  into   a  ^°^^^^°^- 
brotherly  covenant,  told  him  that  he  would  be  his  companion. 
Thus,  one  died  to  bear  testimony  to  the  truth,  and  There  are 
another  rises  out  of  his  ashes,  to  be  a  companion  with  "°|^^of  ^^^ 
Christian  in  his  pilgrimage.     This  Hopeful  also  told  Fairwui 
Christian,  that  there  were  many  more  of  the  men  ^°^°^- 
in    the    Fair,    that   would    take    their    time   and   follow   after. 

*  *  sf:  *  *  *  * 


144  JOHN   BUNYAN 

I  saw,  then,  that  they  ^  went  on  their  way  to  a  pleasant  river  ; 
which  David  the  king  called  "the  river  of  God,"  but  John, 
.    .  "the  river  of  the  water  of  life"  (Ps.  Ixv.  o  ;  Rev.  xxii. 

A  riv6r. 

I,  2;  Ezek.  xlvii.  1-12).  Now  their  way  lay  just 
upon  the  bank  of  the  river;  here,  therefore.  Christian  and  his 
companion  walked  with  great  delight ;  they  drank  also  of  the 
water  of  the  river,  which  was  pleasant,  and  enlivening  to  their 
weary  spirits :  besides,  on  the  banks  of  this  river,  on  either  side, 
were  green  trees,  that  bore  all  manner  of  fruit ;  and  the  leaves 
Trees  by  of  the  trees  were  good  for  medicine ;  with  the  fruit 
the  river.       of  these  trees  they  were  also  much  delighted ;    and 

The  fruit  ,  .   .  ,         , 

and  leaves  the  leaves  they  eat  to  prevent  surfeits,  and  other 
of  the  trees,  discases  that  are  incident  to  those  that  heat  their 
blood  by  travels.  On  either  side  of  the  river  was  also  a  meadow, 
curiously  beautified  with  lilies,  and  it  was  green  all  the  year 
A  meadow  lo^g.  In  this  meadow  they  lay  down,  and  slept ; 
in  which  for  here  they  might  He  down  safely.  When  they 
down  to  awoke,  they  gathered  again  of  the  fruit  of  the  trees, 
sleep.  a^jjfi  drank  again  of  the  water  of  the  river,  and  then 

lay  down  again  to  sleep  (Ps.  xxiii.  2 ;  Isa.  xiv.  30) .  Thus 
they  did  several  days  and  nights.     Then  they  sang  — 

Behold  ye  how  these  crystal  streams  do  glide, 

To  comfort  pilgrims  by  the  highway  side ; 

The  meadows  green,  beside  their  fragrant  smell, 

Yield  dainties  for  them :   and  he  that  can  tell 

What  pleasant  fruit,  yea,  leaves,  these  trees  do  yield, 

Will  soon  sell  all,  that  he  may  buy  this  field. 

So  when  they  were  disposed  to  go  on  (for  they  were  not,  as 
yet,  at  their  journey's  end),  they  ate  and  drank,  and  departed. 

Now,  I  beheld  in  my  dream,  that  they  had  not  journeyed  far, 
but  the  river  and  the  way  for  a  time  parted  ;  at  which  they  were 
not  a  little  sorry ;  yet  they  durst  not  go  out  of  the  way.  Now 
the  way  from  the  river  was  rough,  and  their  feet  tender,  by  rea- 
By-path  son  of  their  travels;  "so  the  souls  of  the  pilgrims 
Meadow.  were  much  discouraged  because  of  the  way"  (Num. 
xxi.  4).  Wherefore,  still  as  they  went  on,  they  wished  for  better 
way.     Now,  a  little  before  them,  there  was  on  the  left  hand  of 

*  Christian  and  Hopeful. 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  145 

the  road  a  meadow,  and  a  stile  to  go  over  into  it ;    and  that 
meadow  is  called  By-path  Meadow.     Then  said  Christian  to  his 
fellow,  If  this  meadow  lieth  along  by  our  wayside, 
let  us  go  over  into  it.     Then  he  went  to  the  stile  to  tion  does' 
see,  and  behold,  a  path  lay  along  by  the  way,  on  ^^^e  way 

1  ,  -1         r   .1        r  X.    •  T  /  for  another. 

the  other  side  of  the  fence.     It  is  according  to  my 

wish,  said  Christian.     Here  is  the  easiest  going;  come,  good 

Hopeful,  and  let  us  go  over. 

Hope.    But   how   if   this   path   should   lead   us  out  of   the 
way? 

Chr.    That  is  not  like,  said  the  other.     Look,  doth  it  not 
go  along  by  the  wayside?     So  Hopeful,  being  per-  g^ 
suaded  by  his  fellow,  went  after  him  over  the  stile,   christians 
When  they  were  gone  over,  and  were  got  into  the  "eJi^'^nts 
path,   they  found  it  very  easy  for  their  feet;    and  out  of  the 
withal,    they,    looking   before    them,    espied    a    man  ^^^• 
walking  as  they  did  (and  his  name  was  Vain-confidence)  ;    so 
they  called  after  him,  and  asked  him  whither  that  see  what  it 
way   led.     He  said.   To   the   Celestial  Gate.     Look,  Iftoof^^,, 

-^  ,  -^      ■!-»         1  •  denly  to  fall 

said  Christian,  did  not  I  tell  you  so?     By  this  you  in  with 
may  see  we  are  right.     So  they  followed,  and  he  went  strangers, 
before  them.     But,  behold,  the  night  came  on,  and  it  grew  very 
dark ;   so  that  they  that  were  behind  lost  the  sight  of  him  that 
went  before. 

He,  therefore,  that  went  before  (Vain-confidence  by  name), 
not  seeing  the  way  before  him,  fell  into  a  deep  pit  ^^.^^^ 
(Isa.  ix.  16),  which  was  on  purpose  there  made,  by  catch  the 
the  Prince  of  those  grounds,  to  catch  vain-glorious  ^^^".Ji^"" 
fools  withal,  and  was  dashed  in  pieces  with  his  fall. 

Now  Christian  and  his  fellow  heard  him  fall.     So  they  called 
to  know  the  matter,  but  there  was  none  to  answer.   Reasoning 
only  they  heard   a  groaning.     Then  said   Hopeful,  ^^^^Ys'tia^n 
Where  are  we  now  ?     Then  was  his  fellow  silent,  as  and  Hope- 
mistrusting  that  he  had  led  him  out  of  the  way ;  and  ^"^• 
now  it  began  to  rain,  and  thunder,  and  Hghten  in  a  very  dread- 
ful manner ;   and  the  water  rose  amain. 

Then  Hopeful  groaned  in  himself,  saying.  Oh,  that  I  had  kept 
on  my  way  ! 


146  JOHN   BUNYAN 

Chr.  Who  could  have  thought  that  this  path  should  have 
led  us  out  of  the  way  ? 

Hope.  I  was  afraid  on  it  at  the  very  first,  and  therefore  gave 
you  that  gentle  caution.  I  would  have  spoken  plainer,  but  that 
you  are  older  than  I. 

Chr.  Good  brother,  be  not  offended ;  I  am  sorry  I  have 
_  ,      brought  thee  out  of  the  way,  and  that  I  have  put 

repentance     thee  into  such  imminent  danger ;   pray,  my  brother, 
o^^his*'^"^^    forgive  me ;   I  did  not  do  it  of  an  evil  intent, 
brother  out        HoPE.    Be  comforted,   my  brother,   for  I   forgive 
of  the  way.     ^^^qq  |  and  believe,  too,  that  this  shall  be  for  our  good. 

Chr.  I  am  glad  I  have  with  me  a  merciful  brother ;  but  we 
must  not  stand  thus :  let  us  try  to  go  back  again. 

Hope.   But,  good  brother,  let  me  go  before. 

Chr.  No,  if  you  please,  let  me  go  first,  that  if  there  be  any 
danger,  I  may  be  first  therein,  because  by  my  means  we  are  both 
gone  out  of  the  way. 

Hope.  No,  said  Hopeful,  you  shall  not  go  first ;  for  your  mind 
being  troubled  may  lead  you  out  of  the  way  again.  Then,  for 
their  encouragement,  they  heard  the  voice  of  one  saying,  "Set 
thine  heart  toward  the  highway,  even  the  way  which  thou 
wentest ;  turn  again"  (Jer.  xxxi.  21).  But  by  this  time  the 
They  are  in  waters  were  greatly  risen,  by  reason  of  which  the 
danger  of  ^ay  of  going  back  was  very  dangerous.  (Then  I 
they  go  thought  that  it  is  easier  going  out  of  the  way,  when 

back.  ^Q  are  in,  than  going  in  when  we  are  out.)     Yet  they 

adventured  to  go  back,  but  it  was  so  dark,  and  the  flood  was  so 
high,  that  in  their  going  back  they  had  Hke  to  have  been 
drowned  nine  or  ten  times. 

Neither  could  they,  with  all  the  skill  they  had,  get  again 
to  the  stile  that  night.  Wherefore,  at  last,  lighting  under  a 
They  sleep  httle  shelter,  they  sat  down  there  until  the  day- 
in  the  break ;     but,    being   weary,    they   fell   asleep.     Now 

GkntDe°-  there  was,  not  far  from  the  place  where  they  lay,  a 
spair.  castle  Called  Doubting  Castle,  the  owner  whereof  was 

Giant  Despair ;  and  it  was  in  his  grounds  they  now  were  sleep- 
ing :  wherefore  he,  getting  up  in  the  morning  early,  and  walk- 
ing up  and  down  in  his  fields,  caught  Christian  and  Hopeful 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  147 

asleep  in  his  grounds.     Then,  with  a  grim  and  surly  voice,  he 
bid  them  awake ;  and  asked  them  whence  they  were,  and  what 
they  did  in  his  grounds.     They  told  him  they  were 
pilgrims,  and  that  they  had  lost  their  way.     Then  Sem'^fn  his 
said  the  Giant,  You  have  this  night  trespassed  on  me,   grounds, 
by  trampling  in  and  lying  on  my  grounds,  and  therefore  them^t"'^^ 
you  must  go  along  with  me.    So  they  were  forced  to  go.   Doubting 

11  -'  o        Castle 

because  he  was  stronger  than  they.      They  also  had 

but  httle  to  say,  for  they  knew  themselves  in  a  fault.     The  Giant, 

therefore,    drove   them   before   him,    and   put   them 

into  his  castle,  into  a  very  dark  dungeon,  nasty  and   ousnessTf 

stinking  to  the  spirits  of  these  two  men  (Ps.  Ixxxviii.   their  im- 

18).     Here,  then,  they  lay  from  Wednesday  morning  p"^°'^™®"  ■ 

till  Saturday  night,  without  one  bit  of  bread,  or  drop  of  drink, 

or  light,  or  any  to  ask  how  they  did ;  they  were,  therefore,  here 

in  evil  case,  and  were  far  from  friends  and  acquaintance.     Now 

in  this  place  Christian  had  double  sorrow,  because  it  was  through 

his  unadvised  counsel  that  they  were  brought  into  this  distress. 

The  pilgrims  now,  to  gratify  the  flesh, 
Will  seek  its  ease ;  but  oh  !  how  they  afresh 
Do  thereby  plunge  themselves  new  griefs  into  ! 
Who  seek  to  please  the  flesh,  themselves  undo. 

Now,  Giant  Despair  had  a  wife,  and  her  name  was  Diffidence. 
So  when  he  was  gone  to  bed,  he  told  his  wife  what  he  had  done ; 
to  wit,  that  he  had  taken  a  couple  of  prisoners  and  cast  them  into 
his  dungeon,  for  trespassing  on  his  grounds.  Then  he  asked  her 
also  what  he  had  best  to  do  further  to  them.  So  she  asked  him 
what  they  were,  whence  they  came,  and  whither  they  were 
bound ;  and  he  told  her.  Then  she  counselled  him  that  when 
he  arose  in  the  morning  he  should  beat  them  without  any  mercy. 
So,  when  he  arose,  he  getteth  him  a  grievous  crab-tree  cudgel, 
and  goes  down  into  the  dungeon  to  them,  and  there  first  falls  to 
rating  of  them  as  if  they  were  dogs,  although  they  never  gave 
him  a  word  of  distaste.  Then  he  falls  upon  them,  and  on  Thurs- 
beats  them  fearfully,  in  such  sort,   that  they  were   day,  Giant 

•^  Despair 

not  able  to  help  themselves,  or  to  turn  them  upon  beats  his 
the  floor.  This  done,  he  withdraws  and  leaves  them,  prisoners, 
there  to  condole  their  misery,  and  to  mourn  under  their  dis- 


148  JOHN   BUNYAN 

tress.  So  all  that  day  they  spent  the  time  in  nothing  but  sighs  and 
bitter  lamentations.  The  next  night,  she,  talking  with  her  hus- 
band about  them  further,  and  understanding  they  were  yet  alive, 
did  advise  him  to  counsel  them  to  make  away  with  themselves. 
So  when  morning  was  come,  he  goes  to  them  in  a  surly  manner 
as  before,  and  perceiving  them  to  be  very  sore  with  the  stripes 
that  he  had  given  them  the  day  before,  he  told  them,  that  since 
On  Friday  they  were  never  like  to  come  out  of  that  place,  their 
Giant  De-  only  way  would  be  forthwith  to  make  an  end  of 
sefs^thenTto  themselves,  either  with  knife,  halter,  or  poison,  for 
kill  them-      why,   said  he,   should  you   choose  life,   seeing  it  is 

selves  ■  • 

attended  with  so  much  bitterness  ?  But  they  de- 
sired him  to  let  them  go.  With  that  he  looked  ugly  upon  them, 
and,  rushing  to  them,  had  doubtless  made  an  end  of  them  him- 
Th  G'  nt  ^^^^'  ^^^  ihsit  he  fell  into  one  of  his  fits  (for  he  some- 
sometimes     times,  in  sunshiny  weather,  fell  into  fits),  and  lost  for 

^^  *^'  a  time  the  use  of  his  hand ;  wherefore  he  withdrew, 
and  left  them  as  before,  to  consider  what  to  do.  Then  did  the 
prisoners  consult  between  themselves,  whether  it  was  best  to 
take  his  counsel  or  no  ;   and  thus  they  began  to  discourse  :  — 

Chr.  Brother,  said  Christian,  what  shall  we  do  ?  The  life 
that  we  now  live  is  miserable.  For  my  part  I  know  not  whether 
Christian  it  is  best,  to  live  thus,  or  to  die  out  of  hand.  "My 
crushed.  gQ^j  chooseth  Strangling  rather  than  life,"  and  the 
grave  is  more  easy  for  me  than  this  dungeon  (Job.  vii.  15). 
Shall  we  be  ruled  by  the  Giant  ? 

Hope.  Indeed,  our  present  condition  is  dreadful,  and  death 
would  be  far  more  welcome  to  me  than  thus  for  ever  to  abide ; 
Hopeful  ^^^^  y^^'  ^^^  ^^^  consider,  the  Lord  of  the  country 
comforts        to  which  we  are  going  hath  said,  Thou  shalt  do  no 

™'  murder  :  no,  not  to  another  man's  person  ;  much  more, 

then,  are  we  forbidden  to  take  his  counsel  to  kill  ourselves. 
Besides,  he  that  kills  another,  can  but  commit  murder  upon  his 
body ;  but  for  one  to  kill  himself  is  to  kill  body  and  soul  at  once. 
And,  moreover,  my  brother,  thou  talkest  of  ease  in  the  grave ; 
but  hast  thou  forgotten  the  hell,  whither  for  certain  the  mur- 
derers go?  For  "no  murderer  hath  eternal  life,"  &c.  And  let 
us  consider,  again,  that  all  the  law  is  not  in  the  hand  of  Giant 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  149 

Despair.  Others,  so  far  as  I  can  understand,  have  been  taken 
by  him,  as  well  as  we ;  and  yet  have  escaped  out  of  his  hand. 
Who  knows,  but  that  God  that  made  the  world  may  cause  that 
Giant  Despair  may  die  ?  or  that,  at  some  time  or  other,  he  may 
forget  to  lock  us  in  ?  or  that  he  may,  in  a  short  time,  have  another 
of  his  fits  before  us,  and  may  lose  the  use  of  his  Hmbs  ?  and  if 
ever  that  should  come  to  pass  again,  for  my  part,  I  am  resolved 
to  pluck  up  the  heart  of  a  man,  and  to  try  my  utmost  to  get  from 
under  his  hand.  I  was  a  fool  that  I  did  not  try  to  do  it  before ; 
but,  however,  my  brother,  let  us  be  patient,  and  endure  a  while. 
The  time  may  come  that  may  give  us  a  happy  release ;  but  let 
us  not  be  our  own  murderers.  With  these  words,  Hopeful  at 
present  did  moderate  the  mind  of  his  brother ;  so  they  continued 
together  (in  the  dark)  that  day,  in  their  sad  and  doleful  condition. 

Well,  towards  evening,  the  Giant  goes  down  into  the  dungeon 
again,  to  see  if  his  prisoners  had  taken  his  counsel ;  but  when 
he  came  there  he  found  them  alive ;  and  truly,  alive  was  all ; 
for  now,  what  for  want  of  bread  and  water,  and  by  reason  of  the 
wounds  they  received  when  he  beat  them,  they  could  do  httle 
but  breathe.  But,  I  say,  he  found  them  alive  ;  at  which  he  fell 
into  a  grievous  rage,  and  told  them  that,  seeing  they  had  dis- 
obeyed his  counsel,  it  should  be  worse  with  them  than  if  they  had 
never  been  born. 

At  this  they  trembled  greatly,  and  I  think  that  Christian  fell 
into  a  swoon ;  but,  coming  a  Uttle  to  himself  again,   Christian 
they    renewed     their    discourse    about    the    Giant's  stui  de- 
counsel  ;    and  whether  yet  they  had  best  to  take  it  J^*^*®*^- 
or  no.     Now  Christian  again  seemed  to  be  for  doing  it,  but 
Hopeful  made  his  second  reply  as  followeth :  — 

Hope.    My   brother,    said    he,    rememberest    thou   not   how 
valiant  thou  hast  been  heretofore  ?     Apollyon  could 
not  crush  thee,  nor  could  all  that  thou  didst  hear,  or  ^^®J"/g 
see,  or  feel,  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,   him  again, 
What  hardship,    terror,    and    amazement   hast   thou  J'/rmJJ'"^ 
already  gone  through  !    And  art  thou  now  nothing  but  things  to 
fear  !      Thou   seest  that  I  am  in  the  dungeon  with  br^nc^. 
thee,  a   far  weaker  man  by  nature  than  thou  art; 
also,  this  Giant  has  wounded  me  as  well  as  thee,  and  hath 


I50  JOHN  BUNYAN 

also  cut  off  the  bread  and  water  from  my  mouth  ;  and  with  thee 
I  mourn  without  the  hght.  But  let  us  exercise  a  little  more 
patience ;  remember  how  thou  playedst  the  man  at  Vanity  Fair, 
and  wast  neither  afraid  of  the  chain,  nor  cage,  nor  yet  of  bloody 
death.  Wherefore  let  us  (at  least  to  avoid  the  shame,  that 
becomes  not  a  Christian  to  be  found  in)  bear  up  with  patience 
as  well  as  we  can. 

Now,  night  being  come  again,  and  the  Giant  and  his  wife  being 
in  bed,  she  asked  him  concerning  the  prisoners,  and  if  they  had 
taken  his  counsel.  To  which  he  replied.  They  are  sturdy  rogues, 
they  choose  rather  to  bear  all  hardship,  than  to  make  away 
themselves.  Then  said  she,  Take  them  into  the  castle-yard  to- 
morrow, and  show  them  the  bones  and  skulls  of  those  that  thou 
hast  already  despatched,  and  make  them  believe,  ere  a  week 
comes  to  an  end,  thou  also  wilt  tear  them  in  pieces,  as  thou  hast 
done  their  fellows  before  them. 

So  when  the  morning  was  come,  the  Giant  goes  to  them  again, 

and  takes  them  into  the  castle-yard,  and  shows  them,  as  his  wife 

had  bidden  him.     These,  said  he,  were  pilgrims  as 

da  ^th*""^  ^^^  ^'"^'  *^^^^'  ^^*^  ^^*^y  trespassed  in  my  grounds,  as 
Giant  you  have  done ;   and  when  I  thought  fit,  I  tore  them 

that^short?  ^^  picccs,  and  so,  within  ten  days,  I  will  do  you. 
he  would  Go,  get  you  down  to  your  den  again ;  and  with  that 
Sriie?^"'  ^  he  beat  them  all  the  way  thither.  They  lay,  there- 
fore, all  day  on  Saturday  in  a  lamentable  case,  as 
before.  Now,  when  night  was  come,  and  when  Mrs.  Diffidence 
and  her  husband,  the  Giant,  were  got  to  bed,  they  began  to 
renew  their  discourse  of  their  prisoners ;  and  withal  the  old  Giant 
wondered,  that  he  could  neither  by  his  blows  nor  his  counsel 
bring  them  to  an  end.  And  with  that  his  wife  replied,  I  fear, 
said  she,  that  they  live  in  hope  that  some  will  come  to  relieve 
them,  or  that  they  have  picklocks  about  them,  by  the  means  of 
which  they  hope  to  escape.  And  sayest  thou  so,  my  dear? 
said  the  Giant ;   I  will,  therefore,  search  them  in  the  morning. 

Well,  on  Saturday,  about  midnight,  they  began  to  pray,  and 
continued  in  prayer  till  almost  break  of  day. 

Now,  a  little  before  it  was  day,  good  Christian,  as  one  half 
amazed,   brake  out  in   this  passionate  speech :    What  a  fool, 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  151 

quoth  he,  am  I,  thus   to  lie   m   a   stinking   dungeon,  when   I 
may  as  well  walk  at  hberty  !     I  have  a  key  in  my   bosom, 
called  Promise,  that  will,  I  am  persuaded,  open  any 
lock  in  Doubting  Castle.     Then  said  Hopeful,  That  ^  ^^^  ^" 

1  111  11.  \       -.        Christian's 

IS  good  news,  good  brother;    pluck  it    out   of    thy  bosom, 

bosom,  and   try.  called  Prom- 

.  ise,  opens 

Then  Christian  pulled  it  out  of  his  bosom,  and  began  any  lock  in 
to  try  at  the  dungeon  door,  whose  bolt  (as  he  turned  cast?e^"^ 
the  key)  gave  back,  and  the  door  flew  open  with  ease, 
and  Christian  and  Hopeful  both  came  out.    Then  he  went  to  the 
outward  door  that  leads  into  the  castle-yard,  and,  with  his  key, 
opened  that  door  also.    After,  he  went  to  the  iron  gate,  for  that 
must  be  opened  too  ;  but  that  lock  went  damnable  hard,  yet  the 
key  did  open  it.    Then  they  thrust  open  the  gate  to  make  their 
escape  with  speed,  but  that  gate,  as  it  opened,  made  such  a 
creaking,  that  it  waked  Giant  Despair,  who,  hastily  rising  to 
pursue  his  prisoners,  felt  his  limbs  to  fail,  for  his  fits  took  him 
again,  so  that  he  could  by  no  means  go  after  them.     Then  they 
went  on,  and  came  to  the  King's  highway,  and  so  were  safe, 
because  they  were  out  of  his  jurisdiction. 

Now,  when  they  were  gone  over  the  stile,  they  began  to  con- 
trive with  themselves  what  they  should  do  at  that  stile,  to  pre- 
vent those  that  should  come  after,  from  falling  into  the  hands  of 
Giant  Despair.     So  they  consented  to  erect  there  a  a  pillar 
pillar,  and  to  engrave  upon  the  side  thereof  this  sen-  ^^j^^^jjf^^^ 
tence  —  "Over   this   stile   is   the   way   to   Doubting  and  his 
Castle,  which  is  kept  by  Giant  Despair,  who  despiseth  ^®"°^- 
the  King  of  the  Celestial  Country,  and  seeks  to  destroy  his  holy 
pilgrims."     Many,  therefore,  that  followed  after,  read  what  was 
written,  and  escaped  the  danger. 

[The  End  of  the  PilgrimageI 

Now  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  by  this  time  the  pilgrims  were 
got  over  the  Enchanted  Ground,  and  entering  into  the  country 
of  Beulah,  whose  air  was  very  sweet  and  pleasant,  the  way  lying 
directly  through  it,  they  solaced  themselves  there  for  a  season 
(Isa.  kii.  4).     Yea,  here  they  heard  continually  the  singing  of 


152  '    JOHN   BUNYAN 

birds,  and  saw  every  day  the  flowers  appear  in  the  earth,  and 
heard  the  voice  of  the  turtle  in  the  land  (Can.  ii.  10-12).  In 
this  country  the  sun  shineth  night  and  day ;  wherefore  this  was 
beyond  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  and  also  out  of  the 
reach  of  Giant  Despair,  neither  could  they  from  this  place  so 
much  as  see  Doubting  Castle.  Here  they  were  within  sight  of 
the  city  they  were  going  to,  also  here  met  them  some  of  the 
inhabitants  thereof ;  for  in  this  land  the  Shining 
°^^^'  Ones   commonly  walked,   because   it  was  upon   the 

borders  of  heaven.  In  this  land  also,  the  contract  between  the 
bride  and  the  bridegroom  was  renewed;  yea,  here,  "As  the 
bridegroom  rejoiceth  over  the  bride,  so  did  their  God  rejoice 
over  them  "  (Isa.  Ixii.  5).  Here  they  had  no  want  of  corn  and 
wine ;  for  in  this  place  they  met  with  abundance  of  what  they 
had  sought  for  in  all  their  pilgrimage  (Verse  8).  Here  they 
heard  voices  from  out  of  the  city,  loud  voices,  saying,  "Say  ye 
to  the  daughter  of  Zion,  Behold,  thy  salvation  cometh  !  Be- 
hold, his  reward  is  with  him!"  (Verse  ii.)  Here  all  the 
inhabitants  of  the  country  called  them,  "The  holy  people,  The 
redeemed  of  the  Lord,  Sought  out,"  &c.  (Verse  12). 

Now,  as  they  walked  in  this  land,  they  had  more  rejoicing 
than  in  parts  more  remote  from  the  kingdom  to  which  they 
were  bound ;  and  drawing  near  to  the  city,  they  had  yet  a  more 
perfect  view  thereof.  It  was  builded  of  pearls  and  precious 
stones,  also  the  street  thereof  was  paved  with  gold ;  so  that  by 
reason  of  the  natural  glory  of  the  city,  and  the  reflection  of  the 
sunbeams  upon  it,  Christian  with  desire  fell  sick ;  Hopeful  also 
had  a  fit  or  two  of  the  same  disease.  Wherefore,  here  they  lay 
by  it  a  while,  crying  out,  because  of  their  pangs,  "If  ye  find  my 
beloved,  tell  him  that  I  am  sick  of  love  "  (Can.  v.  8). 

But,  being  a  httle  strengthened,  and  better  able  to  bear  their 
sickness,  they  walked  on  their  way,  and  came  yet  nearer  and 
nearer,  where  were  orchards,  vineyards,  and  gardens,  and  their 
gates  opened  into  the  highway.  Now,  as  they  came  up  to  these 
places,  behold  the  gardener  stood  in  the  way,  to  whom  the  pil- 
grims said.  Whose  goodly  vineyards  and  gardens  are  these  ? 
He  answered.  They  are  the  King's,  and  are  planted  here  for  his 
own  delight,  and  also  for  the  solace  of  pilgrims.     So  the  gar- 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  153 

dener  had  them  into  the  vineyards,  and  bid  them  refresh  them- 
selves with  the  dainties  (Deut.  xxiii.  24).  He  also  showed 
them  there  the  King's  walks,  and  the  arbours  where  he  dehghted 
to  be  ;  and  here  they  tarried  and  slept. 

Now  I  beheld  in  my  dream,  that  they  talked  more  in  their 
sleep  at  this  time  than  ever  they  did  in  all  their  journey ;  and 
being  in  a  muse  thereabout,  the  gardener  said  even  to  me. 
Wherefore  musest  thou  at  the  matter  ?  It  is  the  nature  of  the 
fruit  of  the  grapes  of  these  vineyards  to  go  down  so  sweetly  as 
to  cause  the  lips  of  them  that  are  asleep  to  speak. 

So  I  saw  that  when  they  awoke,  they  addressed  them- 
selves to  go  up  to  the  city ;  but,  as  I  said,  the  reflection  of  the 
sun  upon  the  city  (for  "the  city  was  pure  gold,"  Rev.  xxi.  18) 
was  so  extremely  glorious,  that  they  could  not,  as  yet,  with  open 
face  behold  it,  but  through  an  instrument  made  for  that  pur- 
pose (2  Cor.  iii.  18).  So  I  saw,  that  as  they  went  on,  there  met 
them  two  men,  in  raiment  that  shone  like  gold  ;  also  their  faces 
shone  as  the  Hght. 

These  men  asked  the  pilgrims  whence  they  came ;  and  they 
told  them.  They  also  asked  them  where  they  had  lodged,  what 
difficulties  and  dangers,  what  comforts  and  pleasures  they  had 
met  in  the  way ;  and  they  told  them.  Then  said  the  men  that 
met  them.  You  have  but  two  difficulties  more  to  meet  with,  and 
then  you  are  in  the  city. 

Christian  then,  and  his  companion,  asked  the  men  to  go  along 
with  them;  so  they  told  them  they  would.  But,  said  they, 
you  must  obtain  it  by  your  own  faith.  So  I  saw  in  my  dream 
that  they  went  on  together,  until  they  came  in  sight  of  the  gate. 

Now,  I  further  saw,  that  betwixt  them  and  the  gate   was    a 
river,  but  there  was  no  bridge  to  go  over :    the  river  was  very 
deep.     At    the    sight,    therefore,    of    this    river,    the  ^^^^^ 
pilgrims  were  much  stunned ;   but  the  men  that  went 
with  them  said.  You  must  go  through,  or  you  cannot  come  at 

the  gate. 

The  pilgrims  then  began  to  inquire  if  there  was  no  other  way 
to  the  gate;  to  which  they  answered.  Yes;  but  there  hath 
not  any,  save  two,  to  wit,  Enoch  and  Elijah,  been  permitted 
to    tread  that  path,    since   the  foundation   of   the   world,   nor 


154  JOHN   BUNYAN 

shall,  until  the  last  trumpet  shall  sound  (i  Cor.  xv.  51,  52). 
The  pilgrims  then,  especially  Christian,  began  to  despond  in 

their  minds,  and  looked  this  way  and  that,  but  no 
wefcome^o*  "^^y  could  be  found  by  them,  by  which  they  might 
nature,  escape  the  river.     Then  they  asked  the  men  if  the 

itwe^pass  waters  were  all  of  a  depth.  They  said.  No;  yet 
out  of  this  they  could  not  help  them  in  that  case  ;  for,  said  they, 
glory.  you  shall  find  it  deeper  or  shallower,  as  you  believe 

in  the  King  of  the  place. 
,^f^!!f.^!i^        They   then   addressed   themselves   to    the   water; 

us  not  com-  ... 

fortabiy  and  entering.  Christian  began  to  sink,  and  crying 
death^  out  to  his  good  friend  Hopeful,  he  said,  I  sink  in  deep 

waters ;  the  billows  go  over  my  head,  all  his  waves 
go  over  me  !     Selah. 

Then  said  the  other.  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  brother,  I  feel  the 
bottom,  and  it  is  good.     Then  said  Christian,  Ah  !  my  friend, 

''the  sorrows  of  death  have  compassed  me  about;" 
conflict  at  I  shall  not  sce  the  land  that  flows  with  milk  and 
the  hour  of     honey ;    and  with  that  a  great  darkness  and  horror 

death  .     . 

fell  upon  Christian,  so  that  he  could  not  see  before 
him.  Also  here  he  in  great  measure  lost  his  senses,  so  that  he 
could  neither  remember,  nor  orderly  talk  of  any  of  those  sweet 
refreshments  that  he  had  met  with  in  the  way  of  his  pilgrimage. 
But  all  the  words  that  he  spake  still  tended  to  discover  that  he 
had  horror  of  mind,  and  heart  fears  that  he  should  die  in  that 
river,  and  never  obtain  entrance  in  at  the  gate.  Here  also,  as 
they  that  stood  by  perceived,  he  was  much  in  the  troublesome 
thoughts  of  the  sins  that  he  had  committed,  both  since  and 
before  he  began  to  be  a  pilgrim.  It  was  also  observed  that  he 
was  troubled  with  apparitions  of  hobgoblins  and  evil  spirits,  for 
ever  and  anon  he  would  intimate  so  much  by  words.  Hopeful, 
therefore,  here  had  much  ado  to  keep  his  brother's  head  above 
water;  yea,  sometimes  he  would  be  quite  gone  down,  and  then, 
ere  a  while,  he  would  rise  up  again  half  dead.  Hopeful  also  would 
endeavour  to  comfort  him,  saying.  Brother,  I  see  the  gate,  and 
men  standing  by  to  receive  us ;  but  Christian  would  answer. 
It  is  you,  it  is  you  they  wait  for ;  you  have  been  Hopeful  ever 
since  I  knew  you.     And  so  have  you,  said  he  to  Christian.     Ah, 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS 


155 


brother  !  said  he,  surely  if  I  was  right  he  would  now  arise  to  help 
me  ;  but  for  my  sins  he  hath  brought  me  into  the  snare,  and  hath 
left  me.  Then  said  Hopeful,  My  brother,  you  have  quite  forgot 
the  text,  where  it  is  said  of  the  wicked,  "There  are  no  bands  in 
their  death,  but  their  strength  is  firm.  They  are  not  in  trouble 
as  other  men,  neither  are  they  plagued  like  other  men"  (Ps. 
Ixxiii.  4,  5).  These  troubles  and  distresses  that  you  go  through 
in  these  waters  are  no  sign  that  God  hath  forsaken  you ;  but 
are  sent  to  try  you,  whether  you  will  call  to  mind  that  which 
heretofore  you  have  received  of  his  goodness,  and  live  upon  him 
in  your  distresses. 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  Christian  was  as  in  a  muse  a 
while.     To  whom  also  Hopeful  added   this  word.  Be   of  good 
cheer.     Jesus  Christ  maketh  thee  whole ;    and  with  christian 
that  Christian  brake  out  with  a  loud  voice,  Oh  !  I  see  delivered 

from  his 

him   again,   and  he   tells  me,   "When   thou  passest  fears  in 
through  the  waters,  I  will  be  with  thee ;   and  through  ^^^th. 
the  rivers,  they  shall  not  overflow  thee"  (Isa.  xliii.  2).     Then 
they  both  took  courage,  and  the  enemy  was  after  that  as  still 
as   a   stone,    until   they   were  gone  over.     Christian  therefore 
presently  found  ground  to  stand  upon,  and  so  it  followed  that 
the  rest  of  the  river  was  but  shallow.     Thus  they 
got   over.     Now,    upon   the   bank   of   the   river,   on  J^wafud? 
the  other  side,  they  saw  the  two  shining  men  again,  them,  so 
who  there  waited  for  them;    wherefore,  being  come  J^eyare 
out  of  the  river,  they  saluted  them  saying,  We  are  passed  out 
ministering  spirits,  sent  forth  to  minister  for  those  ^^^^'l 
that  shall  be  heirs  of  salvation.     Thus  they  went 
along  towards  the  gate. 

Now,  now  look  how  the  holy  pilgrims  ride, 
Clouds  are  their  Chariots,  Angels  are  their  Guide : 
Who  would  not  here  for  him  all  hazards  run, 
That  thus  provides  for  his  when  this  world's  done. 

Now  you  must  note  that  the  city  stood  upon  a  mighty  hill,  but 
the  pilgrims  went  up  that  hill  with  ease,  because  they  ^j^^y  ^^^^ 
had  these  two  men  to  lead  them  up  by  the  arms  ;  also,   putjff  mor- 
they  had  left  their  mortal  garments  behind  them  in 
the  river,  for  though  they  went  in  with  them,  they  came  out 


156  JOHN   BUNYAN 

without  them.  They,  therefore,  went  up  here  with  much  agility 
and  speed,  though  the  foundation  upon  which  the  city  was  framed 
was  higher  than  the  clouds.  They,  therefore,  went  up  through 
the  regions  of  the  air,  sweetly  talking  as  they  went,  being  com- 
forted, because  they  safely  got  over  the  river,  and  had  such  glori- 
ous companions  to  attend  them. 

The  talk  they  had  with  the  Shining  Ones  was  about  the  glory 
of  the  place  ;  who  told  them  that  the  beauty  and  glory  of  it  was 
inexpressible.  There,  said  they,  is  the  "Mount  Zion,  the  heav- 
enly Jerusalem,  the  innumerable  company  of  angels,  and  the 
spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect"  (Heb.  xii.  22-24).  You  are 
going  now,  said  they,  to  the  paradise  of  God,  wherein  you  shall 
see  the  tree  of  life,  and  eat  of  the  never-fading  fruits  thereof ; 
and  when  you  come  there,  you  shall  have  white  robes  given  you, 
and  your  walk  and  talk  shall  be  every  day  with  the  King,  even 
all  the  days  of  eternity  (Rev.  ii.  7  ;  iii.  4 ;  xxii.  5).  There  you 
shall  not  see  again  such  things  as  you  saw  when  you  were  in  the 
lower  region  upon  the  earth,  to  wit,  sorrow,  sickness,  affliction, 
and  death,  "for  the  former  things  are  passed  away."  You  are 
now  going  to  Abraham,  to  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  and  to  the  prophets 
—  men  that  God  hath  taken  away  from  the  evil  to  come,  and 
that  are  now  resting  upon  their  beds,  each  one  walking  in  his 
righteousness  (Isa.  Ivii.  i,  2;  Ixv.  17).  The  men  then  asked. 
What  must  we  do  in  the  holy  place  ?  To  whom  it  was  answered, 
You  must  there  receive  the  comforts  of  all  your  toil,  and  have 
joy  for  all  your  sorrow ;  you  must  reap  what  you  have  sown, 
even  the  fruit  of  all  your  prayers,  and  tears,  and  sufferings  for 
the  King  by  the  way  (Gal.  vi.  7).  In  that  place  you  must 
wear  crowns  of  gold,  and  enjoy  the  perpetual  sight  and  vision  of 
the  Holy  One,  for  "  there  you  shall  see  him  as  he  is"  (i  John  iii.  2). 
There  also  you  shall  serve  him  continually  with  praise,  with 
shouting,  and  thanksgiving,  whom  you  desired  to  serve  in  the 
world,  though  with  much  difficulty,  because  of  the  infirmity  of 
your  flesh.  There  your  eyes  shall  be  delighted  with  seeing,  and 
your  ears  with  hearing  the  pleasant  voice  of  the  Mighty  One. 
There  you  shall  enjoy  your  friends  again,  that  are  gone  thither 
before  you ;  and  there  you  shall  with  joy  receive,  even  every 
one  that  follows  into  the  holy  place  after  you.     There  also  shall 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  157 

you  be  clothed  with  glory  and  majesty,  and  put  into  an  equipage 
fit  to  ride  out  with  the  King  of  glory.  When  he  shall  come  with 
sound  of  trumpet  in  the  clouds  as  upon  the  wings  of'  the  wind, 
you  shall  come  with  him ;  and  when  he  shall  sit  upon  the  throne 
of  judgment,  you  shall  sit  by  him ;  yea,  and  when  he  shall  pass 
sentence  upon  all  the  workers  of  iniquity,  let  them  be  angels  or 
men,  you  also  shall  have  a  voice  in  that  judgment,  because  they 
were  his  and  your  enemies  (i  Thess.  iv.  13-17  ;  Jude  14;  Dan. 
vii.  9,  10;  I  Cor.  vi.  2,  3).  Also,  when  he  shall  again  return  to 
the  city,  you  shall  go  too,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  and  be  ever 
with  him. 

Now  while  they  were  thus  drawing  towards  the  gate,  behold  a 
company  of  the  heavenly  host  came  out  to  meet  them  ;  to  whom 
it  was  said,  by  the  other  two  Shining  Ones,  These  are  the  men 
that  have  loved  our  Lord  when  they  were  in  the  world,  and  that 
have  left  all  for  his  holy  name  ;  and  he  hath  sent  us  to  fetch  them, 
and  we  have  brought  them  thus  far  on  their  desired  journey, 
that  they  may  go  in  and  look  their  Redeemer  in  the  face  with 
joy.  Then  the  heavenly  host  gave  a  great  shout,  saying, 
"Blessed  are  they  which  are  called  unto  the  marriage  supper 
of  the  Lamb"  (Rev.  xix.  9).  There  came  out  also  at  this  time 
to  meet  them,  several  of  the  King's  trumpeters,  clothed  in  white 
and  shining  raiment,  who,  with  melodious  noises,  and  loud,  made 
even  the  heavens  to  echo  with  their  sound.  These  trumpeters 
saluted  Christian  and  his  fellow  with  ten  thousand  welcomes 
from  the  world ;  and  this  they  did  with  shouting,  and  sound  of 
trumpet. 

This  done,  they  compassed  them  round  on  every  side ;  some 
went  before,  some  behind,  and  some  on  the  right  hand,  some  on 
the  left  (as  it  were  to  guard  them  through  the  upper  regions), 
continually  sounding  as  they  went,  with  melodious  noise,  in 
notes  on  high  :  so  that  the  very  sight  was  to  them  that  could  be- 
hold it,  as  if  heaven  itself  was  come  down  to  meet  them.  Thus, 
therefore,  they  walked  on  together ;  and  as  they  walked,  ever  and 
anon  these  trumpeters,  even  with  joyful  sound,  would,  by  mixing 
their  music  with  looks  and  gestures,  still  signify  to  Christian  and 
his  brother,  how  welcome  they  were  into  their  company,  and  with 
what  gladness  they  came  to  meet  them  ;  and  now  were  these  two 


158  JOHN   BUNYAN 

men,  as  it  were,  in  heaven,  before  they  came  at  it,  being  swallowed 
up  with  the  sight  of  angels,  and  with  hearing  of  their  melodious 
notes.  Here  also  they  had  the  city  itself  in  view,  and  they 
thought  they  heard  all  the  bells  therein  to  ring,  to  welcome  them 
thereto.  But  above  all,  the  warm  and  joyful  thoughts  that  they 
had  about  their  own  dwelhng  there,  with  such  company,  and  that 
for  ever  and  ever.  Oh,  by  what  tongue  or  pen  can  their  glorious 
joy  be  expressed  !     And  thus  they  came  up  to  the  gate. 

Now,  when  they  were  come  up  to  the  gate,  there  was  written 
over  it  in  letters  of  gold,  "Blessed  are  they  that  do  his  com- 
mandments, that  they  may  have  right  to  the  tree  of  life,  and  may 
enter  in  through  the  gates  into  the  city"  (Rev.  xxii.  14). 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  the  Shining  Men  bid  them  call 
at  the  gate ;  the  which,  when  they  did,  some  looked  from  above 
over  the  gate,  to  wit,  Enoch,  Moses,  and  Elijah,  &c.,  to  whom  it 
was  said,  These  pilgrims  are  come  from  the  City  of  Destruction, 
for  the  love  that  they  bear  to  the  King  of  this  place  ;  and  then  the 
pilgrims  gave  in  unto  them  each  man  his  certificate,  which  they 
had  received  in  the  beginning ;  those,  therefore,  were  carried  in 
to  the  King,  who,  when  he  had  read  them,  said.  Where  are  the 
men?  To  whom  it  was  answered,  They  are  standing  without 
the  gate.  The  King  then  commanded  to  open  the  gate,  "That 
the  righteous  nation,"  said  he,  "which  keepeth  the  truth,  may 
enter  in"  (Isa.  xxvi.  2). 

Now  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  these  two  men  went  in  at  the  gate  : 
and  lo,  as  they  entered,  they  were  transfigured,  and  they  had 
raiment  put  on  that  shone  like  gold.  There  were  also  that  met 
them  with  harps  and  crowns,  and  gave  them  to  them  —  the  harps 
to  praise  withal,  and  the  crowns  in  token  of  honour.  Then  I 
heard  in  my  dream  that  all  the  bells  in  the  city  rang  again  for 
joy,  and  that  it  was  said  unto  them,  "Enter  ye  into  the  joy 
OF  YOUR  Lord."  I  also  heard  the  men  themselves,  that  they 
sang  with  a  loud  voice,  saying,  "Blessing  and  honour,  and 

GLORY,    AND     POWER,    BE    UNTO    HIM    THAT    SITTETH    LTPON    THE 

throne,  and  unto  the  Lamb,  for  ever  and  ever"  (Rev.  v.  13). 

Now,  just  as  the  gates  were  opened  to  let  in  the  men,  I  looked 

in  after  them,  and,  behold,  the  City  shone  like  the  sun;    the 

streets  also  were  paved  with  gold,  and  in  them  walked  many  men. 


THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS  159 

with  crowns  on  their  heads,  palms  in  their  hands,  and  golden 
harps  to  sing  praises  withal. 

There  were  also  of  them  that  had  wings,  and  they  answered 
one  another  without  intermission,  saying,  "Holy,  holy,  holy  is 
the  Lord"  (Rev.  iv.  8).  And  after  that  they  shut  up  the  gates  ; 
which,  when  I  had  seen,  I  wished  myself  among  them. 

Now  while  I  was  gazing  upon  all  these  things,  I  turned  my 
head  to  look  back,  and  saw  Ignorance  come  up  to  the  river  side ; 
but  he  soon  got  over,  and  that  without  half  that 
difficulty  which  the  other  two  men  met  with.     For  it  comes  up* 
happened   that   there  was   then   in   that  place,   one  *»  t^^ 
Vain-hope,  a  ferryman,  that  with  his  boat  helped  him 
over ;   so  he,  as  the  other  I  saw,  did  ascend  the  hill,  to  come  up 
to  the  gate,  only  he  came  alone ;    neither  did  any  man  meet  him 
with  the  least  encouragement.     When  he  was  come  „  .   , 

"  .   .  Vain-hope 

up  to  the  gate,  he  looked  up  to  the  writing  that  was  does  ferry 
above,  and  then  began  to  knock,  supposing  that  en-  ^^™  *'^"- 
trance  should  have  been  quickly  administered  to  him ;  but  he 
was  asked  by  the  men  that  looked  over  the  top  of  the  gate, 
Whence  came  you  ?  and  what  would  you  have  ?  He  answered, 
I  have  eat  and  drank  in  the  presence  of  the  King,  and  he  has 
taught  in  our  streets.  Then  they  asked  him  for  his  certificate, 
that  they  might  go  in  and  show  it  to  the  King ;  so  he  fumbled  in 
his  bosom  for  one,  and  found  none.  Then  said  they,  Have  you 
none  ?  But  the  man  answered  never  a  word.  So  they  told  the 
King,  but  he  would  not  come  down  to  see  him,  but  commanded 
the  two  Shining  Ones  that  conducted  Christian  and  Hopeful  to 
the  City,  to  go  out  and  take  Ignorance,  and  bind  him  hand  and 
foot,  and  have  him  away.  Then  they  took  him  up,  and  carried 
him  through  the  air,  to  the  door  that  I  saw  in  the  side  of  the  hill, 
and  put  him  in  there.  Then  I  saw  that  there  was  a  way  to  hell, 
even  from  the  gates  of  heaven,  as  well  as  from  the  City  of  De- 
struction !     So  I  awoke,  and  behold  it  was  a  dream. 


OROONOKO:    OR,    THE    ROYAL   SLAVE 
MRS.   APHRA   BEHN 

I  DO  not  pretend,  in  giving  you  the  history  of  this  Royal  Slave, 
to  entertain  my  Reader  with  the  adventures  of  a  feigned  hero, 
whose  life  and  fortunes  fancy  may  manage  at  the  poet's  pleasure  ; 
nor,  in  relating  the  truth,  design  to  adorn  it  with  any  accidents, 
but  such  as  arrived  in  earnest  to  him :  and  it  shall  come  simply 
into  the  world,  recommended  by  its  own  proper  merits,  and  nat- 
ural intrigues ;  there  being  enough  of  reality  to  support  it,  and 
to  render  it  diverting  without  the  addition  of  invention. 

I  was  myself  an  eye-witness  to  a  greater  part  of  what  you  will 
find  here  set  down ;  and  what  I  could  not  be  witness  of,  I  re- 
ceived from  the  mouth  of  the  chief  actor  in  this  history,  the  hero 
himself,  who  gave  us  the  whole  transactions  of  his  youth  :  and 
I  shall  omit,  for  brevity's  sake,  a  thousand  Httle  accidents  of  his 
life,  which,  however  pleasant  to  us,  where  history  was  scarce, 
and  adventures  very  rare,  yet  might  prove  tedious  and  heavy  to 
my  reader,  in  a  world  where  he  finds  diversions  for  every  minute, 
new  and  strange.  But  we  who  were  perfectly  charmed  with 
the  character  of  this  great  man,  were  curious  to  gather  every 
circumstance  of  his  hfe. 

The  scene  of  the  last  part  of  his  adventures  lies  in  a  colony  in 
America,  called  Surinam,  in  the  West  Indies. 

But  before  I  give  you  the  story  of  this  gallant  slave,  it  is  fit 
that  I  tell  you  the  manner  of  bringing  them  to  these  new  colo- 
nies ;  those  they  make  use  of  there,  not  being  natives  of  the 
place :  for  those  we  live  with  in  perfect  amity,  without  daring 
to  command  them ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  caress  them  with  all 
the  brotherly  and  friendly  affection  in  the  world ;  trading  with 
them  for  their  fish,  venison,  buffaloes'  skins,  and  little  rarities; 
as  marmosets,  a  sort  of  monkey,  as  big  as  a  rat  or  weasel,  but  of 

1 60 


OROONOKO:   OR,   THE   ROYAL    SLAVE  i6i 

a  marvelous  and  delicate  shape,  having  face  and  hands  like  a 
human  creature ;  and  cousheries,  a  little  beast  in  the  form  and 
fashion  of  a  Hon,  as  big  as  a  kitten,  but  so  exactly  made  in  all 
parts  like  that  noble  beast,  that  it  is  it  in  miniature :  then  for 
the  little  parrakeets,  great  parrots,  mackaws,  and  a  thousand 
other  birds  and  beasts  of  wonderful  and  surprising  forms,  shapes, 
and  colours.  .  .  .  We  dealt  with  them  with  beads  of  all  colours, 
knives,  axes,  pins,  and  needles,  which  they  used  only  as  tools  to 
drill  holes  with  in  their  ears,  noses,  and  Hps,  where  they  hang  a 
great  many  Httle  things ;  as  long  beads,  bits  of  tin,  brass  or  silver 
beat  thin,  and  any  shining  trinket.  The  beads  they  weave  into 
aprons  about  a  quarter  of  an  ell  long,  and  of  the  same  breadth ; 
working  them  very  prettily  in  flowers  of  several  colours  ;  which 
apron  they  wear  just  before  them,  as  Adam  and  Eve  did  the  fig- 
leaves  ;  the  men  wearing  a  long  strip  of  Hnen,  which  they  deal 
with  us  for.  They  thread  these  beads  also  on  long  cotton-threads, 
and  make  girdles  to  tie  their  aprons  to,  which  come  twenty  times 
or  more,  about  the  waist,  and  then  cross,  like  a  shoulder-belt 
both  ways  and  round  their  necks,  arms  and  legs.  This  adorn- 
ment, with  their  long  black  hair,  and  the  face  painted  in  little 
specks  or  flowers  here  and  there,  makes  them  a  wonderful  figure 
to  behold.  Some  of  the  beauties,  which  indeed  are  finely  shaped, 
as  almost  all  are,  and  who  have  pretty  features,  are  charming 
and  novel ;  for  they  have  all  that  is  called  beauty,  except  the 
colour,  which  is  a  reddish  yellow ;  or  after  a  new  oihng,  which 
they  often  use  to  themselves  they  are  of  the  colour  of  a  new  brick, 
but  smooth,  soft  and  sleek.  And  these  people  represented  to 
me  an  absolute  idea  of  the  first  state  of  innocence,  before  man 
knew  how  to  sin :  And  'tis  most  evident  and  plain,  that  simple 
Nature  is  the  most  harmless,  inoffensive  and  virtuous  mistress. 
It  is  she  alone,  if  she  were  permitted,  that  better  instructs  the 
world,  than  all  the  inventions  of  man :  rehgion  here  would  but 
destroy  that  tranquilfity  they  possess  by  ignorance ;  and  laws 
would  but  teach  them  to  know  offences,  of  which  now  they  have 
no  notion.  They  once  made  mourning  and  fasting  for  the  death 
of  the  Enghsh  Governor,  who  had  given  his  hand  to  come  on 
such  a  day  to  them,  and  neither  came  nor  sent ;  beHeving,  when 
a  man's  word  was  past,  nothing  but  death  could  or  should  pre- 


i62  MRS.   APHRA   BEHN 

vent  his  keeping  it :  and  when  they  saw  he  was  not  dead,  they 
asked  him  what  name  they  had  for  a  man  who  promised  a  thing 
he  did  not  do  ?  The  Governor  told  them  such  a  man  was  a  Har, 
which  was  a  word  of  infamy  to  a  gentleman.  Then  one  of  them 
replied,  "Governor,  you  are  a  liar,  and  guilty  of  that  infamy." 
They  have  a  native  justice,  which  knows  no  fraud ;  and  they 
understand  no  vice,  or  cunning,  but  when  they  are  taught  by 
the  white  men. 

With  these  people,  as  I  said,  we  live  in  perfect  tranquillity, 
and  good  understanding,  as  it  behooves  us  to  do  ;  they  knowing 
all  the  places  where  to  seek  the  best  food  of  the  country,  and  the 
means  of  getting  it ;  and  for  very  small  and  invaluable  trifles, 
supplying  us  with  what  it  is  almost  impossible  for  us  to  get. 
Those  then  whom  we  make  use  of  to  work  in  our  plantations  of 
sugar,  are  Negroes,  black-slaves  altogether,  who  are  transported 
thither. 

Coramantien,  a  country  of  blacks  so  called,  was  one  of  those 
places  in  which  they  found  the  most  advantageous  trading  for 
these  slaves ;  for  that  nation  is  very  warlike  and  brave.  The 
king  of  Coramantien  was  of  himself  a  man  an  hundred  and  odd 
years  old,  and  had  no  son,  though  he  had  many  beautiful  black 
wives :  for  most  certainly  there  are  beauties  that  can  charm  of  that 
colour.  In  his  younger  years  he  had  had  many  gallant  men  to 
his  sons,  thirteen  of  whom  died  in  battle,  conquering  where  they 
fell ;  and  he  had  only  left  him  for  his  successor,  one  grandchild, 
son  to  one  of  these  dead  victors,  who,  as  soon  as  he  could  bear  a 
bow  in  his  hand,  and  a  quiver  at  his  back,  was  sent  into  the  field, 
to  be  trained  up  by  one  of  the  oldest  Generals  to  war;  where, 
from  his  natural  inclination  to  arms,  and  the  occasions  given 
him,  with  the  good  conduct  of  the  old  General,  he  became,  at 
the  age  of  seventeen,  one  of  the  most  expert  Captains,  that  ever 
saw  the  field  of  Mars  :  so  that  he  was  adored  as  the  wonder  of 
all  that  world,  and  the  darling  of  the  soldiers.  Besides,  he  was 
adorned  with  a  native  beauty,  so  transcending  all  those  of  his 
gloomy  race,  that  he  struck  an  awe  and  reverence,  even  into 
those  that  knew  not  his  quality ;  as  he  did  into  me,  who  beheld 
him  with  surprise  and  wonder,  when  afterwards  he  arrived  in  our 
world.     He  had  scarce  arrived  at  his  seventeenth  year,  when, 


OROONOKO:   OR,   THE   ROYAL   SLAVE  163 

fighting  by  his  side,  the  General  was  killed  with  an  arrow  in  his 
eye,  which  the  prince  Oroonoko  (for  so  was  this  gallant  Moor 
called)  very  narrowly  avoided ;  nor  had  he,  if  the  General  who 
saw  the  arrow  shot,  and  perceiving  it  aimed  at  the  Prince,  had 
not  bowed  his  head  between,  on  purpose  to  receive  it  in  his  own 
body,  rather  than  it  should  touch  that  of  the  Prince,  and  so 
saved  him. 

It  was  then,  afflicted  as  Oroonoko  was,  that  he  was  proclaimed 
General  in  the  old  man's  place  :  and  then  it  was,  at  the  finishing 
of  that  war,  which  had  continued  for  two  years,  that  the  Prince 
came  to  Court,  where  he  had  hardly  been  a  month  together, 
from  the  time  of  his  fifth  year  to  that  of  seventeen :  and  it  was 
amazing  to  imagine  where  it  was  he  learned  so  much  humanity ; 
or  to  give  his  accomplishments  a  juster  name,  where  it  was  he 
got  that  real  greatness  of  soul,  those  refined  notions  of  true 
honour,  that  absolute  generosity,  and  that  softness  that  was 
capable  of  the  highest  passions  of  love  and  gallantry,  whose 
objects  were  almost  continually  fighting  men,  or  those  mangled 
or  dead,  who  heard  no  sounds  but  those  of  war  and  groans. 
Some  part  of  it  we  may  attribute  to  the  care  of  a  Frenchman  of 
wit  and  learning,  who  finding  it  turn  to  very  good  account  to  be 
a  sort  of  royal  tutor  to  this  young  black,  and  perceiving  him  very 
ready,  apt,  and  quick  of  apprehension,  took  a  great  pleasure  to 
teach  him  morals,  language  and  science ;  and  was  for  it  extremely 
beloved  and  valued  by  him.  Another  reason  was,  he  loved  when 
he  came  from  war,  to  see  all  the  English  gentlemen  that  traded 
thither ;  and  did  not  only  learn  their  language,  but  that  of  the 
Spaniard  also,  with  whom  he  traded  afterwards  for  slaves. 

I  have  often  seen  and  conversed  with  this  great  man,  and  been 
a  witness  to  many  of  his  mighty  actions,  and  do  assure  my  reader, 
the  most  illustrious  Courts  could  not  have  produced  a  braver  man, 
both  for  greatness  of  courage  and  mind,  a  judgment  more  sohd, 
a  wit  more  quick,  and  a  conversation  more  sweet  and  diverting. 
He  knew  almost  as  much  as  if  he  had  read  much  :  he  had  heard 
of  and  admired  the  Romans  :  he  had  heard  of  the  late  Civil  Wars 
in  England,  and  the  deplorable  death  of  our  great  Monarch; 
and  would  discourse  of  it  with  all  the  sense  of  abhorrence  of  the 
injustice  imaginable.     He  had  an  extreme  good  and  graceful 


i64  MRS.   APHRA   BEHN 

mien,  and  all  the  civility  of  a  well-bred  great  man.  He  had 
nothing  of  barbarity  in  his  nature,  but  in  all  points  addressed 
himself  as  if  his  education  had  been  in  some  European  Court. 

This  great  and  just  character  of  Oroonoko  gave  me  an  extreme 
curiosity  to  see  him,  especially  when  I  knew  he  spoke  French  and 
English,  and  that  I  could  talk  with  him.  But  though  I  had  heard 
so  much  of  him,  I  was  as  greatly  surprised  when  I  saw  him,  as  if 
I  had  heard  nothing  of  him ;  so  beyond  all  report  I  found  him. 
He  came  into  the  room,  and  addressed  himself  to  me  and  some 
other  women,  with  the  best  grace  in  the  world.  He  was  pretty 
tall,  but  of  a  shape  the  most  exact  that  can  be  fancied  :  the  most 
famous  statuary  could  not  form  the  figure  of  a  man  more  ad- 
mirably turned  from  head  to  foot.  His  face  was  not  of  that 
brown  rusty  black  which  most  of  that  nation  are,  but  a  perfect 
ebony,  or  polished  jet.  His  eyes  were  the  most  awful  that  could 
be  seen,  and  very  piercing ;  the  white  of  them  being  like  snow, 
as  were  his  teeth.  His  nose  rising  and  Roman,  instead  of  African 
and  flat :  his  mouth  the  finest  shaped  that  could  be  seen ;  far 
from  those  great  turned  lips,  which  are  so  natural  to  the  rest  of 
the  Negroes.  The  whole  proportion  and  air  of  his  face  was  so 
nobly  and  exactly  formed,  that,  bating  his  color,  there  could  be 
nothing  in  nature  more  beautiful,  agreeable  and  handsome. 
There  was  no  one  grace  wanting,  that  bears  the  standard  of 
true  beauty.  His  hair  came  down  to  his  shoulders,  by  the  aids 
of  art,  which  was  by  pulling  it  out  with  a  quill,  and  keeping  it 
combed ;  of  which  he  took  particular  care.  Nor  did  the  per- 
fections of  his  mind  come  short  of  those  of  his  person ;  for  his 
discourse  was  admirable  upon  almost  any  subject :  and  whoever 
had  heard  him  speak,  would  have  been  convinced  of  their  errors, 
that  all  fine  wit  is  confined  to  white  men,  especially  to  those  of 
Christendom ;  and  would  have  confessed  that  Oroonoko  was  as 
capable  even  of  reigning  well,  and  of  governing  as  wisely,  had  as 
great  a  soul,  as  politic  maxims,  and  was  as  sensible  of  power,  as 
any  Prince  civilized  in  the  most  refined  schools  of  humanity  and 
learning,  or  the  most  illustrious  courts. 

This  Prince,  such  as  I  have  described  him,  whose  soul  and 
body  were  so  admirably  adorned,  was  (while  yet  he  was  in  the 
Court  of  his  grandfather,  as  I  have  said)  as  capable  of  love,  as 


OROONOKO:   OR,   THE   ROYAL   SLAVE  165 

it  was  possible  for  a  brave  and  gallant  man  to  be ;  and  in  saying 
that,  I  have  named  the  highest  degree  of  love :  for  sure  great 
souls  are  most  capable  of  that  passion. 

I  have  already  said  that  the  old  General  was  killed  by  the  shot 
of  an  arrow,  by  the  side  of  this  Prince,  in  battle ;  and  that 
Oroonoko  was  made  General.  This  old  dead  hero  had  one  only 
daughter  left  of  his  race,  a  beauty,  that  to  describe  her  truly,  one 
need  say  only,  she  was  female  to  the  noble  male ;  the  beautiful 
black  Venus  to  our  young  Mars ;  as  charming  in  person  as  he, 
and  of  delicate  virtues.  I  have  seen  a  hundred  white  men  sigh- 
ing after  her,  and  making  a  thousand  vows  at  her  feet,  all  in 
vain  and  unsuccessful.  And  she  was  indeed  too  great  for  any  but 
a  prince  of  her  own  nation  to  adore, 

Oroonoko  coming  from  the  wars  (which  were  now  ended) 
after  he  had  made  his  Court  to  his  grandfather,  he  thought  in 
honour  he  ought  to  make  a  visit  to  Imoinda,  the  daughter  of 
his  foster-father,  the  dead  General,  and  to  make  some  excuses  to 
her  because  his  preservation  was  the  occasion  of  her  father's 
death ;  and  to  present  her  with  those  slaves  that  had  been  taken 
in  this  last  battle,  as  the  trophies  of  her  father's  victories.  When 
he  came,  attended  by  all  the  young  soldiers  of  any  merit,  he  was 
infinitely  surprised  at  the  beauty  of  this  fair  Queen  of  Night, 
whose  face  and  person  were  so  exceeding  all  that  he  had  ever  be- 
held, that  lovely  modesty  with  which  she  received  him,  that  soft- 
ness in  her  looks  and  sighs,  upon  the  melancholy  occasion  of  this 
honour  that  was  done  by  so  great  a  man  as  Oroonoko,  and  a 
Prince  of  whom  she  had  heard  such  admirable  things  ;  the  awful- 
ness  with  which  she  received  him,  and  the  sweetness  of  her  words 
and  behavior  while  he  stayed,  gained  a  perfect  conquest  over  his 
fierce  heart,  and  made  him  feel,  the  victor  could  be  subdued.  So 
that  having  made  his  first  compliments,  and  presented  her  a 
hundred  and  fifty  slaves  in  fetters,  he  told  her  with  his  eyes,  that 
he  was  not  insensible  of  her  charms ;  while  Imoinda  who  wished 
for  nothing  more  than  so  glorious  a  conquest,  was  pleased  to 
beheve,  she  understood  that  silent  language  of  new-born  love ; 
and,  from  that  moment,  put  on  all  her  additions  to  beauty. 

The  Prince  returned  to  Court  with  quite  another  humour  than 
before ;   and  though  he  did  not  speak  much  of  the  fair  Imoinda, 


i66  MRS.   APHRA   BEHN 

he  had  the  pleasure  to  hear  all  his  followers  speak  of  nothing  but 
the  charms  of  that  maid,  insomuch,  that,  even  in  the  presence  of 
the  old  King,  they  were  extolling  her,  and  heightening,  if  possible, 
the  beauties  they  had  found  in  her :  so  that  nothing  else  was 
talked  of,  no  other  sound  was  heard  in  every  corner  where  there 
were  whisperers,  but  Imoinda  !  Imoinda  ! 

It  will  be  imagined  Oroonoko  stayed  not  long  before  he  made 
his  second  visit ;  nor,  considering  his  quality,  not  much  longer 
before  he  told  her  he  adored  her.  I  have  often  heard  him  say, 
that  he  admired  by  what  strange  inspiration  he  came  to  talk 
things  so  soft,  and  so  passionate,  who  never  knew  love,  nor  was 
used  to  the  conversation  of  women ;  but  (to  use  his  own  words) 
he  said,  most  happily,  some  new,  and  till  then,  unknown  power 
instructed  his  heart  and  tongue  in  the  language  of  love ;  and  at 
the  same  time,  in  favour  of  him,  inspired  Imoinda  with  a  sense  of 
his  passion.  She  was  touched  with  what  he  said,  and  returned 
it  all  in  such  answers  as  went  to  his  very  heart,  with  a  pleasure 
unknown  before.  Nor  did  he  use  those  obligations  ill,  that  love 
had  done  him,  but  turned  all  his  happy  moments  to  the  best 
advantage ;  and  as  he  knew  no  vice,  his  flame  aimed  at  nothing 
but  honour,  if  such  a  distinction  may  be  made  in  love ;  and  es- 
pecially in  that  country,  where  men  take  to  themselves  as  many 
as  they  can  maintain ;  and  where  the  only  crime  and  sin  against 
a  woman,  is,  to  turn  her  ofT,  to  abandon  her  to  want,  shame  and 
misery ;  such  ill  morals  are  only  practiced  in  Christian  coun- 
tries, where  they  prefer  the  bare  name  of  religion ;  and,  without 
religion  or  morality  think  that  sufficient.  But  Oroonoko  was 
none  of  these  professors ;  but  as  he  had  right  notions  of  honour, 
so  he  made  her  such  propositions  as  were  not  only  and  barely 
such ;  but,  contrary  to  the  custom  of  his  country,  he  made  her 
vows  she  should  be  the  only  woman  he  would  possess  while  he 
lived  ;  that  no  age  or  wrinkles  should  incline  him  to  change  :  for 
her  soul  would  be  always  fine  and  always  young ;  and  he  should 
have  an  eternal  idea  in  his  mind  of  the  charms  she  now  bore ; 
and  should  look  into  his  heart  for  that  idea,  when  he  could  find  it 
no  longer  in  her  face. 

And  after  a  thousand  assurances  of  his  lasting  flame,  and  her 
eternal  empire  over  him,  she  condescended  to  receive  him  for 


OROONOKO:   OR,   THE   ROYAL    SLAVE  167 

her  husband ;   or  rather,  receive  him  as  the  greatest  honour  the 
gods  could  do  her. 


[Oroonoko  and  Imoinda  are  later  captured  separately  by  slave-traders  and 
sold  in  the  West  Indies  where  they  are  reunited.  They  are  known  there  as 
Ccesar  and  Clcmene.] 

From  that  happy  day  Caesar  took  Clemene  for  his  wife,  to  the 
general  joy  of  all  people  ;  and  there  was  as  much  magnificence  as 
the  country  could  afford  at  the  celebration  of  this  wedding :  and 
in  a  very  short  time  after  she  conceived  with  child,  which  made 
Caesar  even  adore  her,  knowing  he  was  the  last  of  his  great  race. 
This  new  accident  made  him  more  impatient  of  liberty,  and  he 
was  every  day  treating  with  Trefry  for  his  and  Clemene's  liberty, 
and  offered  either  gold,  or  a  vast  quantity  of  slaves,  which  should 
be  paid  before  they  let  him  go,  provided  he  could  have  any 
security  that  he  should  go  when  his  ransom  was  paid.  They  fed 
him  from  day  to  day  with  promises,  and  delayed  him  till  the 
Lord-Governour  should  come  ;  so  that  he  began  to  suspect  them 
of  falsehood,  and  that  they  would  delay  him  till  the  time  of  his 
wife's  delivery,  and  make  a  slave  of  the  child  too ;  for  all  the 
breed  is  theirs  to  whom  the  parents  belong.  This  thought  made 
him  very  uneasy,  and  his  sullenness  gave  them  some  jealousies 
of  him;  so  that  I  was  obliged,  by  some  persons  who  feared  a 
mutiny  (which  is  very  fatal  sometimes  in  those  colonies  that 
abound  so  with  slaves,  that  they  exceed  the  whites  in  vast 
numbers),  to  discourse  with  Caesar,  and  to  give  him  all  the  satis- 
faction I  possibly  could.  They  knew  he  and  Clemene  were 
scarce  an  hour  in  a  day  from  my  lodgings  ;  that  they  ate  with  me, 
and  that  I  obliged  them  in  all  things  I  was  capable.  I  enter- 
tained them  with  the  lives  of  the  Romans,  and  great  men,  which 
charmed  him  to  my  company ;  and  her,  with  teaching  her  all 
the  pretty  works  I  was  mistress  of,  and  telling  her  stories  of  nuns, 
and  endeavouring  to  bring  her  to  the  knowledge  of  the  true 
God.  But  of  all  the  discourses,  Caesar  liked  that  the  worst,  and 
would  never  be  reconciled  to  our  notion  of  the  trinity,  of  which 
he  ever  made  a  jest ;  it  was  a  riddle  he  said  would  turn  his  brain 
to  conceive,  and  one  could  not  make  him  understand  what  faith 
was.  .  .  .     Before  I  parted  that  day  with  him,  I  got  with  much 


i68  MRS.   APHRA   BEHN 

ado,  a  promise  from  him  to  rest  yet  a  little  longer  with  patience, 
and  wait  the  coming  of  the  Lord-Governour,  who  was  every  day 
expected  on  our  shore.  .  .  . 

My  stay  was  to  be  short  in  that  country ;  because  my  father 
died  at  sea,  and  never  arrived  to  possess  the  honour  designed  him, 
(which  was  Lieutenant-General  of  six-and-thirty  islands,  besides 
the  continent  of  Surinam)  nor  the  advantages  that  he  hoped  to 
reap  by  them:  so  that  though  we  were  obliged  to  continue  on 
our  voyage,  we  did  not  intend  to  stay  upon  the  place.  Though, 
in  a  word,  I  must  say  thus  much  of  it,  that  certainly  had  his 
late  Majesty,  of  sacred  memory,  but  seen  and  known  what  a 
vast  and  charming  world  he  had  been  master  of  in  that  con- 
tinent, he  would  never  have  parted  so  easily  with  it  to  the  Dutch. 
It  is  a  continent,  whose  vast  extent  was  never  yet  known,  and 
may  contain  more  noble  earth  than  all  the  universe  beside ;  for, 
they  say,  it  reaches  from  east  to  west  one  way  as  far  as  China, 
another  to  Peru.  It  affords  all  things  both  for  beauty  and  use ; 
it  is  there  eternal  spring,  always  the  very  months  of  April,  May, 
and  June ;  the  shades  are  perpetual,  the  trees  bearing  at  once 
all  degrees  of  leaves,  and  fruit,  from  blooming  buds  to  ripe 
autumn :  groves  of  oranges,  lemons,  citrons,  figs,  nutmegs,  and 
noble  aromatics,  continually  bearing  their  fragrances,  the  trees 
appearing  all  like  nosegays,  adorned  with  flowers  of  different 
kinds ;  some  are  all  white,  some  purple,  some  scarlet,  some  blue, 
some  yellow ;  bearing  at  the  same  time  ripe  fruit,  and  blooming 
young,  or  producing  every  day  new.  The  very  wood  of  all  these 
trees  has  an  intrinsic  value,  above  common  timber ;  for  they  are, 
when  cut,  of  different  colours,  glorious  to  behold,  and  bear  a 
price  considerable,  to  inlay  withal.  Besides  this,  they  yield  rich 
balms,  and  gums ;  so  that  we  make  our  candles  of  such  an  aro- 
matic substance  as  does  not  only  give  a  sufficient  Ught,  but  as  they 
burn,  they  cast  their  perfumes  all  about.  Cedar  is  the  common 
firing,"and  all  the  houses  are  built  with  it.  The  very  meat  we  eat, 
when  set  on  the  table,  if  it  be  native,  I  mean  of  the  country,  per- 
fumes the  whole  room ;  especially  a  little  beast  called  an  Arma- 
dillo, a  thing  which  I  can  liken  to  nothing  so  well  as  a  rhinoceros  ; 
it  is  all  in  white  armour,  so  jointed,  that  it  moves  as  well  in  it,  as 
if  it  had  nothing  on.     This  beast  is  about  the  bigness  of  a  pig  of 


OROONOKO:   OR,    THE    ROYAL    SLAVE  169 

six  weeks  old.  But  it  were  endless  to  give  an  account  of  all  the 
divers  wonderful  and  strange  things  that  country  affords,  and 
which  he  took  a  great  delight  to  go  in  search  of ;  though  those 
adventures  are  oftentimes  fatal,  and  at  least  dangerous.  But 
while  we  had  Caesar  in  our  company  on  these  designs,  we  feared 
no  harm,  nor  suffered  any. 

As  soon  as  I  came  into  the  country,  the  best  house  in  it  was 
presented  me,  called  St.  John's  Hill.  It  stood  on  a  vast  rock  of 
white  marble,  at  the  foot  of  which  the  river  ran  a  vast  depth 
down,  and  not  to  be  descended  on  that  side ;  the  little  waves 
still  dashing  and  washing  the  foot  of  this  rock,  made  the  softest 
murmurings  and  purlings  in  the  world ;  and  the  opposite  bank 
was  adorned  with  such  vast  quantities  of  dififerent  flowers  eter- 
nally blowing,  and  every  day  and  hour  new,  fenced  behind  them 
with  lofty  trees,  of  a  thousand  rare  forms  and  colours,  that  the 
prospect  was  the  most  ravishing  that  fancy  can  create.  On  the 
edge  of  this  white  rock,  towards  the  river,  was  a  walk,  or  grove, 
of  orange  and  lemon  trees,  about  half  the  length  of  the  Mall  here, 
whose  flowery  and  fruit-bearing  branches  met  at  the  top,  and 
hindered  the  sun,  whose  rays  are  very  fierce  there,  from  entering 
a  beam  into  the  grove ;  and  the  cool  air  that  came  from  the  river 
made  it  not  only  fit  to  entertain  people  in,  at  all  the  hottest 
hours  of  the  day,  but  refreshed  the  sweet  blossoms,  and  made  it 
always  sweet  and  charming ;  and  sure,  the  whole  globe  of  the 
world  cannot  show  so  delightful  a  place  as  this  grove  was  :  not  all 
the  gardens  of  boasted  Italy  can  produce  a  shade  to  outvie  this, 
which  nature  has  joined  with  art  to  render  so  exceeding  fine  ;  and 
it  is  a  marvel  to  see  how  such  vast  trees,  big  as  Enghsh  oaks, 
could  take  footing  on  so  solid  a  rock,  and  in  so  little  earth  as 
covered  that  rock.  But  all  things  by  nature  there  are  rare, 
deHghtful,  and  wonderful.     But  to  our  sports. 

Sometimes  we  would  go  surprising,  and  in  search  of  young 
tigers  in  their  dens,  watching  when  the  old  ones  went  forth  to 
forage  for  prey :  and  oftentimes  we  have  been  in  great  danger, 
and  have  fled  apace  for  our  lives,  when  surprised  by  the  dams. 
But  once,  above  all  other  times,  we  went  on  this  design,  and 
Caesar  was  with  us;  who  had  no  sooner  stolen  a  young  tiger 
from  her  nest,  but  going  off,  we  encountered  the  dam,  bearing  a 


lyo  MRS.   APHRA   BEHN 

buttock  of  a  cow,  which  she  had  torn  off  with  her  mighty  paw, 
and  going  with  it  towards  her  den.  We  had  only  four  women, 
Csesar  and  an  Enghsh  gentleman,  brother  to  Harry  Martin  the 
great  OHverian ;  we  found  there  was  no  escaping  this  enraged 
and  ravenous  beast.  However,  we  women  fled  as  fast  as  we 
could  from  it ;  but  our  heels  had  not  saved  our  lives,  if  Caesar 
had  not  laid  down  her  cub,  when  he  found  the  tiger  quit  her 
prey  to  make  the  more  speed  toward  him ;  and  taking  Mr. 
Martin's  sword,  desired  him  to  stand  aside,  or  follow  the  ladies. 
He  obeyed  him  ;  and  Caesar  met  this  monstrous  beast  of  mighty 
size,  and  vast  limbs,  who  came  with  open  jaws  upon  him,  and 
fixinghis  awful  stern  eyes  full  upon  those  of  the  beast,  and  putting 
himself  into  a  very  steady  and  good  aiming  posture  of  defence, 
ran  his  sword  quite  through  his  breast,  down  to  his  very  heart, 
home  to  the  hilt  of  the  sword.  The  dying  beast  stretched  forth 
her  paw,  and  going  to  grasp  his  thigh,  surprised  with  death  in 
that  very  moment,  did  him  no  other  harm  than  fixing  her  long 
nails  in  his  flesh  very  deep,  feebly  wounding  him,  but  could  not 
grasp  the  flesh  to  tear  off  any.  When  he  had  done  this,  he 
halloaed  us  to  return  ;  which,  after  some  assurance  of  his  victory, 
we  did,  and  found  him  lugging  out  the  sword  from  the  bosom  of 
the  tiger,  who  was  laid  in  her  blood  on  the  ground.  He  took  up 
the  cub,  and  with  an  unconcern  that  had  nothing  of  the  joy  or 
gladness  of  victory,  he  came  and  laid  the  whelp  at  my  feet.  We 
all  extremely  wondered  at  his  daring,  and  at  the  bigness  of  the 
beast,  which  was  about  the  height  of  a  heifer,  but  of  mighty 
great  and  strong  limb. 

[Becoming  convinced  of  the  faithlessness  of  the  white  men,  Ccesar  leads  an 
uprising  of  the  slaves.  The  fugitives  arc  overtaken,  and  Casar,  out  of  con- 
sideration for  Imoinda,  surrenders.  The  white  men  immediately  violate  their 
promises  of  clemency,  and  proceed  to  torture  Ccesar.  "  The  Royal  Slave"  meets 
his  fate  heroically.] 

And  turning  to  the  men  that  had  bound  him,  he  said,  "My 
friends,  am  I  to  die,  or  be  whipt?"  And  they  cried,  "Whipt ! 
no,  you  shall  not  escape  so  well."  And  then  he  replied,  smihng, 
"A  blessing  on  thee"  ;  and  assured  them  they  need  not  tie  him, 
for  he  would  stand  fixed  like  a  rock,  and  endure  death  so  as 


OROONOKO:   OR,   THE   ROYAL   SLAVE  171 

should  encourage  them  to  die:  "But  if  you  whip  me,"  said  he, 
"be  sure  you  tie  me  fast." 

He  had  learned  to  take  tobacco ;  and  when  he  was  assured  he 
should  die,  he  desired  they  would  give  him  a  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
ready  lighted  ;  which  they  did.  And  the  executioner  came,  and 
first  cut  off  his  members,  and  threw  them  into  the  fire,  after 
that,  with  an  ill  favoured  knife,  they  cut  off  his  ears  and  his 
nose,  and  burned  them ;  he  still  smoked  on  as  if  nothing  had 
touched  him ;  then  they  hacked  off  one  of  his  arms,  and  still  he 
bore  up  and  held  his  pipe ;  but  at  the  cutting  off  of  the  other  arm, 
his  head  sunk,  and  his  pipe  dropped,  and  he  gave  up  the  ghost, 
without  a  groan,  or  a  reproach.  My  mother  and  sister  were  by 
him  all  the  while,  but  not  suffered  to  save  him  ;  so  rude  and  wild 
were  the  rabble  and  so  inhuman  were  the  justices  who  stood  by  to 
see  the  execution,  who  after  paid  dear  enough  for  their  insolence. 
They  cut  Caesar  into  quarters,  and  sent  them  to  several  of  the 
chief  plantations  :  one  quarter  was  sent  to  Colonel  Martin  ;  who 
refused  it,  and  swore  he  had  rather  see  the  quarters  of  Banister, 
and  the  Governour  himself,  than  those  of  C^sar  on  his  planta- 
tions ;  and  that  he  could  govern  his  negroes,  without  terrifying 
and  grieving  them  with  frightful  spectacles  of  a  mangled  king. 

Thus  died  this  great  man,  worthy  of  a  better  fate,  and  a  more 
sublime  wit  than  mine  to  write  his  praise.  Yet,  I  hope  the 
reputation  of  my  pen  is  considerable  enough  to  make  his  glorious 
name  to  survive  to  all  ages,  with  that  of  the  brave,  the  beautiful, 
and  the  constant  Imoinda. 


THE  LIFE,  ADVENTURES,   AND    PIRACIES   OF  THE 
FAMOUS   CAPTAIN   SINGLETON 

DANIEL   DEFOE 

As  it  is  usual  for  great  persons,  whose  lives  have  been  remark- 
able, and  whose  actions  deserve  recording  to  posterity,  to  insist 
much  upon  their  originals,  give  full  accounts  of  their  families, 
and  the  histories  of  their  ancestors,  so,  that  I  may  be  methodical, 
I  shall  do  the  same,  though  I  can  look  but  a  very  little  way  into 
my  pedigree,  as  you  will  see  presently. 

If  I  may  believe  the  woman  whom  I  was  taught  to  call  mother, 
I  was  a  httle  boy,  of  about  two  years  old,  very  well  dressed,  had 
a  nursery-maid  to  attend  me,  who  took  me  out  on  a  fine  summer's 
evening  into  the  fields  toward  Islington,  as  she  pretended,  to  give 
the  child  some  air ;  a  little  girl  being  with  her,  of  twelve  or  four- 
teen years  old,  that  lived  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  maid, 
whether  by  appointment  or  otherwise,  meets  with  a  fellow,  her 
sweetheart,  as  I  suppose ;  he  carries  her  into  a  public-house,  to 
give  her  a  pot  and  a  cake ;  and  while  they  were  toying  in  the  house 
the  girl  plays  about,  with  me  in  her  hand,  in  the  garden  and  at 
the  door,  sometimes  in  sight,  sometimes  out  of  sight,  thinking 
no  harm. 

At  this  juncture  comes  by  one  of  those  sort  of  people  who,  it 
seems,  made  it  their  business  to  spirit  away  little  children.  This 
was  a  helhsh  trade  in  those  days,  and  chiefly  practised  where 
they  found  little  children  very  well  dressed,  or  for  bigger  children, 
to  sell  them  to  the  plantations. 

The  woman,  pretending  to  take  me  up  in  her  arms  and  kiss  me, 
and  play  with  me,  draws  the  girl  a  good  way  from  the  house,  till 
at  last  she  makes  a  fine  story  to  the  girl,  and  bids  her  go  back 
to  the  maid,  and  tell  her  where  she  was  with  the  child ;  that  a 
gentlewoman  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  child,  and  was  kissing  of 
it,  but  she  should  not  be  frighted,  or  to  that  purpose;   for  they 

172 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    173 

were  but  just  there ;  and  so,  while  the  girl  went,  she  carries  me 
quite  away. 

From  this  time,  it  seems,  I  was  disposed  of  to  a  beggar  woman 
that  wanted  a  pretty  Httle  child  to  set  out  her  case ;  and  after 
that,  to  a  gipsy,  under  whose  government  I  continued  till  I  was 
about  six  years  old.  And  this  woman,  though  I  was  continually 
dragged  about  with  her  from  one  part  of  the  country  to  another, 
yet  never  let  me  want  for  anything ;  and  I  called  her  mother ; 
though  she  told  me  at  last  she  was  not  my  mother,  but  that  she 
bought  me  for  twelve  shillings  of  another  woman,  who  told  her 
how  she  came  by  me,  and  told  her  that  my  name  was  Bob  Single- 
ton, not  Robert,  but  plain  Bob  ;  for  it  seems  they  never  knew 
by  what  name  I  was  christened. 

It  is  in  vain  to  reflect  here,  what  a  terrible  fright  the  careless 
hussy  was  in  that  lost  me ;  what  treatment  she  received  from 
my  justly  enraged  father  and  mother,  and  the  horror  these  must 
be  in  at  the  thoughts  of  their  child  being  thus  carried  away ;  for 
as  I  never  knew  anything  of  the  matter,  but  just  what  I  have 
related,  nor  who  my  father  and  mother  were,  so  it  would  make 
but  a  needless  digression  to  talk  of  it  here. 

My  good  gipsy  mother,  for  some  of  her  worthy  actions  no 
doubt,  happened  in  process  of  time  to  be  hanged  ;  and  as  this  fell 
out  something  too  soon  for  me  to  be  perfected  in  the  strolling 
trade,  the  parish  where  I  was  left,  which  for  my  life  I  can't  re- 
member, took  some  care  of  me,  to  be  sure ;  for  the  first  thing  I 
can  remember  of  myself  afterward,  was,  that  I  went  to  a  parish 
school,  and  the  minister  of  the  parish  used  to  talk  to  me  to  be  a 
good  boy ;  and  that,  though  I  was  but  a  poor  boy,  if  I  minded  my 
book,  and  served  God,  I  might  make  a  good  man. 

I  believe  I  was  frequently  removed  from  one  town  to  another, 
perhaps  as  the  parishes  disputed  my  supposed  mother's  last 
settlement.  Whether  I  was  so  shifted  by  passes,  or  otherwise, 
I  know  not ;  but  the  town  where  I  last  was  kept,  whatever  its 
name  was,  must  be  not  far  off  from  the  seaside  ;  for  a  master  of  a 
ship  who  took  a  fancy  to  me,  was  the  first  that  brought  me  to  a 
place  not  far  from  Southampton,  which  I  afterwards  knew  to  be 
Bussleton ;  and  there  I  attended  the  carpenters,  and  such  people 
as  were  employed  in  building  a  ship  for  him ;   and  when  it  was 


174  DANIEL    DEFOE 

done,  though  I  was  not  above  twelve  years  old,  he  carried  me  to 
sea  with  him  on  a  voyage  to  Newfoundland. 

I  lived  well  enough,  and  pleased  my  master  so  well  that  he 
called  me  his  own  boy ;  and  I  would  have  called  him  father,  but 
he  would  not  allow  it,  for  he  had  children  of  his  own.  I  went 
three  or  four  voyages  with  him,  and  grew  a  great  sturdy  boy, 
when,  coming  home  again  from  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  we 
were  taken  by  an  Algerine  rover,  or  man-of-war ;  which,  if  my 
account  stands  right,  was  about  the  year  1695,  ^^^  y^^  ^^^y  t>e 
sure  I  kept  no  journal. 

I  was  not  much  concerned  at  the  disaster,  though  I  saw  my 
master,  after  having  been  wounded  by  a  spHnter  in  the  head 
during  the  engagement,  very  barbarously  used  by  the  Turks ;  I 
say,  I  was  not  much  concerned,  till,  upon  some  unlucky  thing  I 
said,  which,  as  I  remember,  was  about  abusing  my  master,  they 
took  me  and  beat  me  most  unmercifully  with  a  flat  stick  on  the 
soles  of  my  feet,  so  that  I  could  neither  go  or  stand  for  several 
days  together. 

But  my  good  fortune  was  my  friend  upon  this  occasion ;  for, 
as  they  were  sailing  away  with  our  ship  in  tow  as  a  prize,  steering 
for  the  Straits,  and  in  sight  of  the  bay  of  Cadiz,  the  Turkish  rover 
was  attacked  by  two  great  Portuguese  men-of-war,  and  taken 
and  carried  into  Lisbon. 

[Singleton,  during  his  captivity  at  the  hands  of  the  Portuguese,  falls  among 
evil  companions  and  deteriorates  into  an  ill-principled  and  adventurous  char- 
acter. While  on  a  voyage  to  the  East  he  becomes  leader  in  a  mutiny,  which 
attempt  results  in  the  mutineers'  being  furnished  with  provision  and  arms, 
and  being  set  upon  an  island  to  shift  for  themselves.  Still  led  by  Singleton, 
they  contrive  to  build  a  craft  which,  after  a  long  and  uncertain  journey,  lands 
them  upon  the  continent  of  Africa^ 


We  were  now  landed  upon  the  continent  of  Africa,  the  most 
desolate,  desert,  and  inhospitable  country  in  the  world,  even 
Greenland  and  Nova  Zembla  itself  not  excepted,  with  this  dif- 
ference only,  that  even  the  worst  part  of  it  we  found  inhabited, 
though,  taking  the  nature  and  quahty  of  some  of  the  inhabitants, 
it  might  have  been  much  better  to  us  if  there  had  been  none. 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    175 

And,  to  add  to  the  exclamation  I  am  making  on  the  nature  of 
the  place,  it  was  here  that  we  took  one  of  the  rashest,  and  wildest, 
and  most  desperate  resolutions  that  ever  was  taken  by  man,  or 
any  number  of  men,  in  the  world ;  this  was,  to  travel  overland 
through  the  heart  of  the  country,  from  the  coast  of  Mozambique, 
on  the  east  ocean,  to  the  coast  of  Angola  or  Guinea,  on  the  west- 
ern or  Atlantic  Ocean,  a  continent  of  land  of  at  least  1800  miles, 
in  which  journey  we  had  excessive  heats  to  support,  unpassable 
deserts  to  go  over,  no  carriages,  camels,  or  beasts  of  any  kind  to 
carry  our  baggage,  innumerable  numbers  of  wild  and  ravenous 
beasts  to  encounter  with,  such  as  hons,  leopards,  tigers,  hzards, 
and  elephants ;  we  had  the  equinoctial  hne  to  pass  under,  and, 
consequently,  were  in  the  very  centre  of  the  torrid  zone ;  we  had 
nations  of  savages  to  encounter  with,  barbarous  and  brutish  to 
the  last  degree ;  hunger  and  thirst  to  struggle  with,  and,  in  one 
word,  terrors  enough  to  have  daunted  the  stoutest  hearts  that 
ever  were  placed  in  cases  of  flesh  and  blood. 

Yet,  fearless  of  all  these,  we  resolved  to  adventure,  and  ac- 
cordingly made  such  preparations  for  our  journey  as  the  place 
we  were  in  would  allow  us,  and  such  as  our  httle  experience  of  the 
country  seemed  to  dictate  to  us. 

It  had  been  some  time  already  that  we  had  been  used  to  tread 
barefooted  upon  the  rocks,  the  gravel,  the  grass,  and  the  sand 
on  the  shore ;  but  as  we  found  the  worst  thing  for  our  feet  was 
the  walking  or  travelhng  on  the  dry  burning  sands,  within  the 
country,  so  we  provided  ourselves  with  a  sort  of  shoes,  made  of 
the  skins  of  wild  beasts,  with  the  hair  inward,  and  being  dried  in 
the  sun,  the  outsides  were  thick  and  hard,  and  would  last  a  great 
while.  In  short,  as  I  called  them,  so  I  think  the  term  very  proper 
still,  we  made  us  gloves  for  our  feet,  and  we  found  them  very 
convenient  and  very  comfortable. 

We  conversed  with  some  of  the  natives  of  the  country,  who 
were  friendly  enough.  What  tongue  they  spoke  I  do  not  yet 
pretend  to  know.  We  talked  as  far  as  we  could  make  them 
understand  us,  not  only  about  our  provisions,  but  also  about  our 
undertaking,  and  asked  them  what  country  lay  that  way,  point- 
ing west  with  our  hands.  They  told  us  but  little  to  our  purpose, 
only  we  thought,  by  all  their  discourse,  that  there  were  people 


176  DANIEL   DEFOE 

to  be  found,  of  one  sort  or  other,  everywhere ;  that  there  were 
many  great  rivers,  many  Hons  and  tigers,  elephants,  and  furious 
wild  cats  (which  in  the  end  we  found  to  be  civet  cats),  and  the 
like. 

When  we  asked  them  if  any  one  had  ever  travelled  that  way, 
they  told  us  yes,  some  had  gone  to  where  the  sun  sleeps,  meaning 
to  the  west,  but  they  could  not  tell  us  who  they  were.  When  we 
asked  for  some  to  guide  us,  they  shrunk  up  their  shoulders  as 
Frenchmen  do  when  they  are  afraid  to  undertake  a  thing.  When 
we  asked  them  about  the  lions  and  wild  creatures,  they  laughed, 
and  let  us  know  that  they  would  do  us  no  hurt,  and  directed  us 
to  a  good  way  indeed  to  deal  with  them,  and  that  was  to  make 
some  fire,  which  would  always  fright  them  away ;  and  so  indeed 
we  found  it. 

Upon  these  encouragements  we  resolved  upon  our  journey,  and 
many  considerations  put  us  upon  it,  which,  had  the  thing  itself 
been  practicable,  we  were  not  so  much  to  blame  for  as  it  might 
otherwise  be  supposed ;  I  will  name  some  of  them,  not  to  make 
the  account  too  tedious. 


We  now  set  forward  wholly  by  land,  and  without  any  expecta- 
tion of  more  water-carriage.  All  our  concern  for  more  water 
was  to  be  sure  to  have  a  supply  for  our  drinking ;  and  therefore 
upon  every  hill  that  we  came  near  we  clambered  up  to  the  highest 
part  to  see  the  country  before  us,  and  to  make  the  best  judg- 
ment we  could  which  way  to  go  to  keep  the  lowest  grounds,  and 
as  near  some  stream  of  water  as  we  could. 

The  country  held  verdant,  well  grown  with  trees,  and  spread 
with  rivers  and  brooks,  and  tolerably  well  with  inhabitants, 
for  about  thirty  days'  march  after  our  leaving  the  canoes,  during 
which  time  things  went  pretty  well  with  us ;  we  did  not  tie  our- 
selves down  when  to  march  and  when  to  halt,  but  ordered  those 
things  as  our  convenience  and  the  health  and  ease  of  our  people, 
as  well  our  servants  as  ourselves,  required. 

About  the  middle  of  this  march  we  came  into  a  low  and  plain 
country,  in  which  we  perceived  a  greater  number  of  inhabitants 
than  in  any  other  country  we  had  gone  through  ;  but  that  which 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    177 

was  worse  for  us,  we  found  them  a  fierce,  barbarous,  treacherous 
people,  and  who  at  first  looked  upon  us  as  robbers,  and  gathered 
themselves  in  numbers  to  attack  us. 

Our  men  were  terrified  at  them  at  first,  and  began  to  discover 
an  unusual  fear,  and  even  our  black  prince  seemed  in  a  great 
deal  of  confusion ;  but  I  smiled  at  him,  and  showing  him  some 
of  our  guns,  I  asked  him  if  he  thought  that  which  killed  the 
spotted  cat  (for  so  they  called  the  leopard  in  their  language)  could 
not  make  a  thousand  of  those  naked  creatures  die  at  one  blow  ? 
Then  he  laughed,  and  said,  yes,  he  believed  it  would.  "Well, 
then,"  said  I,  ''tell  your  men  not  to  be  afraid  of  these  people, 
for  we  shall  soon  give  them  a  taste  of  what  we  can  do  if  they 
pretend  to  meddle  with  us."  However,  we  considered  we  were 
in  the  middle  of  a  vast  country,  and  we  knew  not  what  numbers 
of  people  and  nations  we  might  be  surrounded  with,  and,  above 
all,  we  knew  not  how  much  we  might  stand  in  need  of  the  friend- 
ship of  these  that  we  were  now  among,  so  that  we  ordered  the 
negroes  -  to  try  all  the  methods  they  could  to  make  them 
friends. 

Accordingly  the  two  men  who  had  gotten  bows  and  arrows, 
and  two  more  to  whom  we  gave  the  prince's  two  fine  lances,  went 
foremost,  with  five  more,  having  long  poles  in  their  hands ;  and 
after  them  ten  of  our  men  advanced  toward  the  negro  town  that 
was  next  to  us,  and  we  all  stood  ready  to  succour  them  if  there 
should  be  occasion. 

When  they  came  pretty  near  their  houses  our  negroes  hallooed 
in  their  screaming  way,  and  called  to  them  as  loud  as  they  could. 
Upon  their  calling,  some  of  the  men  came  out  and  answered,  and 
immediately  after  the  whole  town,  men,  women,  and  children, 
appeared;  our  negroes,  with  their  long  poles,  went  forward  a 
little,  and  stuck  them  all  in  the  ground,  and  left  them,  which  in 
their  country  was  a  signal  of  peace,  but  the  other  did  not  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  that.  Then  the  two  men  with  bows  laid 
down  their  bows  and  arrows,  went  forward  unarmed,  and  made 
signs  of  peace  to  them,  which  at  last  the  other  began  to  under- 
stand ;  so  two  of  their  men  laid  down  their  bows  and  arrows, 
and  came  towards  them.  Our  men  made  all  the  signs  of  friend- 
ship to  them  that  they  could  think  of,  putting  their  hands  up  to 


1 78  DANIEL   DEFOE 

their  mouths  as  a  sign  that  they  wanted  provisions  to  eat ;  and 
the  other  pretended  to  be  pleased  and  friendly,  and  went  back  to 
their  fellows  and  talked  with  them  a  while,  and  they  came  for- 
ward again,  and  made  signs  that  they  would  bring  some  provisions 
to  them  before  the  sun  set;  and  so  our  men  came  back  again 
very  well  satisfied  for  that  time. 

But  an  hour  before  sunset  our  men  went  to  them  again,  just 
in  the  same  posture  as  before,  and  they  came  according  to  their 
appointment,  and  brought  deer's  flesh,  roots,  and  the  same  kind 
of  corn,  like  rice,  which  I  mentioned  above ;  and  our  negroes, 
being  furnished  with  such  toys  as  our  cutler  had  contrived,  gave 
them  some  of  them,  which  they  seemed  infinitely  pleased  with, 
and  promised  to  bring  more  provisions  the  next  day. 

Accordingly  the  next  day  they  came  again,  but  our  men  per- 
ceived they  were  more  in  number  by  a  great  many  than  before. 
However,  having  sent  out  ten  men  with  firearms  to  stand  ready, 
and  our  whole  army  being  in  view  also,  we  were  not  much  sur- 
prised ;  nor  was  the  treachery  of  the  enemy  so  cunningly  ordered 
as  in  other  cases,  for  they  might  have  surrounded  our  negroes, 
which  were  but  nine,  under  a  show  of  peace ;  but  when  they  saw 
our  men  advance  ahnost  as  far  as  the  place  where  they  were  the 
day  before,  the  rogues  snatched  up  their  bows  and  arrows  and 
came  running  upon  our  men  like  so  many  furies,  at  which  our 
ten  men  called  to  the  negroes  to  come  back  to  them,  which  they 
did  with  speed  enough  at  the  first  word,  and  stood  all  behind  our 
men.  As  they  fled,  the  other  advanced,  and  let  fly  near  a 
hundred  of  their  arrows  at  them,  by  which  two  of  our  negroes 
were  wounded,  and  one  we  thought  had  been  killed.  When 
they  came  to  the  five  poles  that  our  men  had  stuck  in  the  ground, 
they  stood  still  awhile,  and  gathering  about  the  poles,  looked  at 
them,  and  handled  them,  as  wondering  what  they  meant.  We 
then,  who  were  drawn  up  behind  all,  sent  one  of  our  number  to 
our  ten  men  to  bid  them  fire  among  them  while  they  stood  so 
thick,  and  to  put  some  small  shot  into  their  guns  besides  the 
ordinary  charge,  and  to  tell  them  that  we  would  be  up  with  them 
immediately. 

Accordingly  they  made  ready;  but  by  the  time  they  were 
ready  to  fire,  the  black  army  had  left  their  wandering  about  the 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    179 

poles,  and  began  to  stir  as  if  they  would  come  on,  though  seeing 
more  men  stand  at  some  distance  behind  our  negroes,  they  could 
not  tell  what  to  make  of  us ;  but  if  they  did  not  understand  us 
before,  they  understood  us  less  afterwards,  for  as  soon  as  ever 
our  men  found  them  to  begin  to  move  forward  they  fired  among 
the  thickest  of  them,  being  about  the  distance  of  120  yards,  as 
near  as  we  could  guess. 

It  is  impossible  to  express  the  fright,  the  screaming  and  yelling 
of  those  wretches  upon  this  first  volley.  We  killed  six  of  them, 
and  wounded  eleven  or  twelve,  I  mean  as  we  knew  of ;  for,  as 
they  stood  thick,  and  the  small  shot,  as  we  called  it,  scattered 
among  them,  we  had  reason  to  believe  we  wounded  more  that 
stood  farther  off,  for  our  small  shot  was  made  of  bits  of  lead  and 
bits  of  iron,  heads  of  nails,  and  such  things  as  our  diligent  artificer, 
the  cutler,  helped  us  to. 

As  to  those  that  were  killed  and  wounded,  the  other  frighted 
creatures  were  under  the  greatest  amazement  in  the  world,  to 
think  what  should  hurt  them,  for  they  could  see  nothing  but  holes 
made  in  their  bodies  they  knew  not  how.  Then  the  fire  and 
noise  amazed  all  their  women  and  children,  and  frighted  them 
out  of  their  wits,  so  that  they  ran  staring  and  howling  about  like 
mad  creatures. 

However,  all  this  did  not  make  them  fly,  which  was  what  we 
wanted,  nor  did  we  find  any  of  them  die  as  it  were  with  fear,  as 
at  first ;  so  we  resolved  upon  a  second  volley,  and  then  to  advance 
as  we  did  before.  Whereupon  our  reserved  men  advancing,  we 
resolved  to  fire  only  three  men  at  a  time,  and  move  forward  like 
an  army  firing  in  platoon ;  so,  being  all  in  a  line,  we  fired,  first 
three  on  the  right,  then  three  on  the  left,  and  so  on ;  and  every 
time  we  killed  or  wounded  some  of  them,  but  still  they  did  not 
fly,  and  yet  they  were  so  frighted  that  they  used  none  of  their 
bows  and  arrows,  or  of  their  lances ;  and  we  thought  their  num- 
bers increased  upon  our  hands,  particularly  we  thought  so  by 
the  noise.  So  I  called  to  our  men  to  halt,  and  bid  them  pour 
in  one  whole  volley  and  then  shout,  as  we  did  in  our  first 
fight,  and  so  run  in  upon  them  and  knock  them  down  with  our 
muskets. 

But  they  were  too  wise  for  that  too,  for  as  soon  as  we  had  fired 


i8o  DANIEL  DEFOE 

a  whole  volley  and  shouted,  they  all  ran  away,  men,  women,  and 
children,  so  fast  that  in  a  few  moments  we  could  not  see  one 
creature  of  them  except  some  that  were  wounded  and  lame,  who 
lay  wallowing  and  screaming  here  and  there  upon  the  ground  as 
they  happened  to  fall. 

Upon  this  we  .came  up  to  the  field  of  battle,  where  we  found  we 
had  killed  thirty-seven  of  them,  among  which  were  three  women, 
and  had  wounded  about  sixty-four,  among  which  were  two  women  ; 
by  wounded  I  mean  such  as  were  so  maimed  as  not  to  be  able  to 
go  away,  and  those  our  negroes  killed  afterwards  in  a  cowardly 
manner  in  cold  blood,  for  which  we  were  very  angry,  and 
threatened  to  make  them  go  to  them  if  they  did  so  again. 

There  was  no  great  spoil  to  be  got,  for  they  were  all  stark 
naked  as  they  came  into  the  world,  men  and  women  together, 
some  of  them  having  feathers  stuck  in  their  hair,  and  others  a 
kind  of  bracelet  about  their  necks,  but  nothing  else ;  but  our 
negroes  got  a  booty  here,  which  we  were  very  glad  of,  and  this 
was  the  bows  and  arrows  of  the  vanquished,  of  which  they  found 
more  than  they  knew  what  to  do  with,  belonging  to  the  killed 
and  wounded  men ;  these  we  ordered  them  to  pick  up,  and  they 
were  very  useful  to  us  afterwards.  After  the  fight,  and  our 
negroes  had  gotten  bows  and  arrows,  we  sent  them  out  in  parties 
to  see  what  they  could  get,  and  they  got  some  provisions ;  but, 
which  was  better  than  all  the  rest,  they  brought  us  four  more 
young  bulls,  or  buffaloes,  that  had  been  brought  up  to  labour  and 
to  carry  burthens.  They  knew  them,  it  seems,  by  the  burthens 
they  had  carried  having  galled  their  backs,  for  they  have  no 
saddles  to  cover  them  with  in  that  country. 

Those  creatures  not  only  eased  our  negroes,  but  gave  us  an 
opportunity  to  carry  more  provisions ;  and  our  negroes  loaded 
them  very  hard  at  this  place  with  flesh  and  roots,  such  as  we 
wanted  very  much  afterwards. 

In  this  town  we  found  a  very  little  young  leopard,  about  two 
spans  high ;  it  was  exceeding  tame,  and  purred  like  a  cat  when 
we  stroked  it  with  our  hands,  being,  as  I  suppose,  bred  up  among 
the  negroes  like  a  house-dog.  It  was  our  black  prince,  it  seems, 
who,  making  his  tour  among  the  abandoned  houses  or  huts, 
found  this  creature  there,  and  making  much  of  him,  and  giving 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    i8i 

a  bit  or  two  of  flesh  to  him,  the  creature  followed  him  like  a  dog ; 
of  which  more  hereafter. 

Among  the  negroes  that  were  killed  in  this  battle  there  was 
one  who  had  a  little  thin  bit  or  plate  of  gold,  about  as  big  as  a 
sixpence,  which  hung  by  a  little  bit  of  a  twisted  gut  upon  his 
forehead,  by  which  we  supposed  he  was  a  man  of  some  eminence 
among  them  ;  but  that  was  not  all,  for  this  bit  of  gold  put  us  upon 
searching  very  narrowly  if  there  was  not  more  of  it  to  be  had 
thereabouts,  but  we  found  none  at  all. 

From  this  part  of  the  country  we  went  on  for  about  fifteen 
days,  and  then  found  ourselves  obliged  to  march  up  a  high  ridge 
of  mountains,  frightful  to  behold,  and  the  first  of  the  kind  that 
we  met  with  ;  and  having  no  guide  but  our  little  pocket-compass, 
we  had  no  advantage  of  information  as  to  which  was  the  best  or 
the  worst  way,  but  was^  obliged  to  choose  by  what  we  saw,  and 
shift  as  well  as  we  could.  We  met  with  several  nations  of  wild 
and  naked  people  in  the  plain  country  before  we  came  to  those 
hills,  and  we  found  them  much  more  tractable  and  friendly  than 
those  devils  we  had  been  forced  to  fight  with ;  and  though  we 
could  learn  little  from  these  people,  yet  we  understood  by  the 
signs  they  made  that  there  was  a  vast  desert  beyond  these  hills, 
and,  as  our  negroes  called  them,  much  lion,  much  spotted  cat 
(so  they  called  the  leopard) ,.;  and  they  signed  to  us  also  that  we 
must  carry  water  with  us.  At  the  last  of  these  nations  we  fur- 
nished ourselves  with  as  much  provisions  as  we  could  possibly 
carry,  not  knowing  what  we  had  to  suffer,  or  what  length  we  had 
to  go  ;  and,  to  make  our  way  as  familiar  to  us  as  possible,  I  pro- 
posed that  of  the  last  inhabitants  we  could  find  we  should  make 
some  prisoners  and  carry  them  with  us  for  guides  over  the  desert, 
and  to  assist  us  in  carrying  provision,  and,  perhaps,  in  getting  it 
too.  The  advice  was  too  necessary  to  be  slighted  ;  so  finding,  by 
our  dumb  signs  to  the  inhabitants,  that  there  were  some  people 
that  dwelt  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains  on  the  other  side  before 
we  came  to  the  desert  itself,  we  resolved  to  furnish  ourselves  with 
guides  by  fair  means  or  foul. 

Here,  by  a  moderate  computation,  we  concluded  ourselves 
700  miles  from  the  sea-coast  where  we  began.     Our  black  prince 

*  ware?     See  "  Captain  Singleton  "  in  "  Camelot  Series,"  London,  1887,  p.  90. 


i82  DANIEL  DEFOE 

was  this  day  set  free  from  the  sHng  his  arm  hung  in,  our  surgeon 
having  perfectly  restored  it,  and  he  showed  it  to  his  own  country- 
men quite  well,  which  made  them  greatly  wonder.  Also  our  two 
negroes  began  to  recover,  and  their  wounds  to  heal  apace,  for 
our  surgeon  was  very  skilful  in  managing  their  cure. 

Having  with  infinite  labour  mounted  these  hills,  and  coming 
to  a  view  of  the  country  beyond  them,  it  was  indeed  enough  to 
astonish  as  stout  a  heart  as  ever  was  created.  It  was  a  vast 
howling  wilderness  —  not  a  tree,  a  river,  or  a  green  thing  to  be 
seen ;  for,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  look,  nothing  but  a  scalding 
sand,  which,  as  the  wind  blew,  drove  about  in  clouds  enough  to 
overwhelm  man  and  beast.  Nor  could  we  see  any  end  of  it 
either  before  us,  which  was  our  way,  or  to  the  right  hand  or  left ; 
so  that  truly  our  men  began  to  be  discouraged,  and  talk  of  going 
back  again.  Nor  could  we  indeed  think  of  venturing  over  such 
a  horrid  place  as  that  before  us,  in  which  we  saw  nothing  but 
present  death. 

I  was  as  much  affected  at  the  sight  as  any  of  them ;  but,  for 
all  that,  I  could  not  bear  the  thoughts  of  going  back  again.  I 
told  them  we  had  marched  700  miles  of  our  way,  and  it  would  be 
worse  than  death  to  think  of  going  back  again ;  and  that,  if  they 
thought  the  desert  was  not  passable,  I  thought  we  should  rather 
change  our  course,  and  travel  south  till  we  came  to  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  or  north  to  the  country  that  lay  along  the  Nile, 
where,  perhaps,  we  might  find  some  way  or  other  over  to  the 
west  sea ;   for  sure  all  Africa  was  not  a  desert. 

Our  gunner,  who,  as  I  said  before,  was  our  guide  as  to  the 
situation  of  places,  told  us  that  he  could  not  tell  what  to  say  to 
going  for  the  Cape,  for  it  was  a  monstrous  length,  being  from  the 
place  where  we  now  were  not  less  than  1500  miles  ;  and,  by  his 
account,  we  were  now  come  a  third  part  of  the  way  to  the  coast 
of  Angola,  where  we  should  meet  the  western  ocean,  and  find 
ways  enough  for  our  escape  home.  On  the  other  hand,  he  assured 
us,  and  showed  us  a  map  of  it,  that,  if  we  went  northward,  the 
western  shore  of  Africa  went  out  into  the  sea  above  1000  miles 
west,  so  that  we  should  have  so  much  and  more  land  to  travel 
afterwards ;  which  land  might,  for  aught  we  knew,  be  as  wild, 
barren,  and  desert  as  this.     And  therefore,  upon  the  whole,  he 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    183 

proposed  that  we  should  attempt  this  desert,  and  perhaps  we 
should  not  find  it  so  long  as  we  feared ;  and  however,  he  pro- 
posed that  we  should  see  how  far  our  provisions  would  carry  us, 
and,  in  particular,  our  water ;  and  we  should  venture  no  further 
than  half  so  far  as  our  water  would  last ;  and  if  we  found  no  end 
of  the  desert,  we  might  come  safely  back  again. 

This  advice  was  so  reasonable  that  we  all  approved  of  it ;  and 
accordingly  we  calculated  that  we  were  able  to  carry  provisions 
for  forty-two  days,  but  that  we  could  not  carry  water  for  above 
twenty  days,  though  we  were  to  suppose  it  to  stink,  too,  before 
that  time  expired.  So  that  we  concluded  that,  if  we  did  not  come 
at  some  water  in  ten  days'  time,  we  would  return ;  but  if  we 
found  a  supply  of  water,  we  could  then  travel  twenty-one  days ; 
and,  if  we  saw  no  end  of  the  wilderness  in  that  time,  we  would 
return  also. 

With  this  regulation  of  our  measures,  we  descended  the  moun- 
tains, and  it  was  the  second  day  before  we  quite  reached  the 
plain  ;  where,  however,  to  make  us  amends,  we  found  a  fine  little 
rivulet  of  very  good  water,  abundance  of  deer,  a  sort  of  creature 
like  a  hare,  but  not  so  nimble,  but  whose  flesh  we  found  very 
agreeable.  But  we  were  deceived  in  our  inteUigence,  for  we  found 
no  people ;  so  we  got  no  more  prisoners  to  assist  us  in  carrying 
our  baggage. 

The  infinite  number  of  deer  and  other  creatures  which  we  saw 
here,  we  found  was  occasioned  by  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
waste  or  desert,  from  whence  they  retired  hither  for  food  and 
refreshment.  We  stored  ourselves  here  with  flesh  and  roots  of 
divers  kinds,  which  our  negroes  understood  better  than  we,  and 
which  served  us  for  bread ;  and  with  as  much  water  as  (by  the 
allowance  of  a  quart  a  day  to  a  man  for  our  negroes,  and  three 
pints  a  day  a  man  for  ourselves,  and  three  quarts  a  day  each  for 
our  buffaloes)  would  serve  us  twenty  days ;  and  thus  loaded  for  a 
long  miserable  march,  we  set  forwards,  being  all  sound  in  health 
and  very  cheerful,  but  not  alike  strong  for  so  great  a  fatigue ; 
and,  which  was  our  grievance,  were  without  a  guide. 

In  the  very  first  entrance  of  the  waste  we  were  exceedingly 
discouraged,  for  we  found  the  sand  so  deep,  and  it  scalded  our 
feet  so  much  with  the  heat,  that  after  we  had,  as  I  may  call  it, 


i84  DANIEL   DEFOE 

waded  rather  than  walked  through  it  about  seven  or  eight  miles, 
we  were  all  heartily  tired  and  faint ;  even  the  very  negroes  laid 
down  and  panted  like  creatures  that  had  been  pushed  beyond 
their  strength. 

Here  we  found  the  difference  of  lodging  greatly  injurious  to  us ; 
for,  as  before,  we  always  made  us  huts  to  sleep  under,  which 
covered  us  from  the  night  air,  which  is  particularly  unwholesome 
in  those  hot  countries.  But  we  had  here  no  shelter,  no  lodging, 
after  so  hard  a  march ;  for  here  were  no  trees,  no,  not  a  shrub 
near  us ;  and,  which  was  still  more  frightful,  towards  night  we 
began  to  hear  the  wolves  howl,  the  hons  bellow,  and  a  great 
many  wild  asses  braying,  and  other  ugly  noises  which  we  did  not 
understand. 

Upon  this  we  reflected  upon  our  indiscretion,  that  we  had  not, 
at  least,  brought  poles  or  stakes  in  our  hands,  with  which  we 
might  have,  as  it  were,  pahsadoed  ourselves  in  for  the  night,  and 
so  we  might  have  slept  secure,  whatever  other  inconveniences  we 
suffered.  However,  we  found  a  way  at  last  to  relieve  ourselves 
a  little ;  for  first  we  set  up  the  lances  and  bows  we  had,  and  en- 
deavoured to  bring  the  tops  of  them  as  near  to  one  another  as 
we  could,  and  so  hung  our  coats  on  the  top  of  them,  which  made 
us  a  kind  of  sorry  tent.  The  leopard's  skin,  and  a  few  other  skins 
we  had  put  together,  made  us  a  tolerable  covering,  and  thus  we 
laid  down  to  sleep,  and  slept  very  heartily  too,  for  the  first  night ; 
setting,  however,  a  good  watch,  being  two  of  our  own  men  with 
their  fuzes,  whom  we  reheved  in  an  hour  at  first,  and  two  hours 
afterwards.  And  it  was  very  well  we  did  this,  for  they  found  the 
wilderness  swarmed  with  raging  creatures  of  all  kinds,  some  of 
which  came  directly  up  the  very  enclosure  of  our  tent.  But  our 
sentinels  were  ordered  not  to  alarm  us  with  firing  in  the  night, 
but  to  flash  in  the  pan  at  them,  which  they  did,  and  found  it 
effectual,  for  the  creatures  went  off  always  as  soon  as  they  saw 
it,  perhaps  with  some  noise  or  howling,  and  pursued  such  other 
game  as  they  were  upon. 

If  we  were  tired  with  the  day's  travel,  we  were  all  as  much  tired 
with  the  night's  lodging.  But  our  black  prince  told  us  in  the 
morning  he  would  give  us  some  counsel,  and  indeed  it  was  very 
good  counsel.     He  told  us  we  should  be  all  killed  if  we  went  on 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    185 

this  journey,  and  through  this  desert,  without  some  covering  for 
us  at  night;  so  he  advised  us  to  march  back  again  to  a  Uttle 
river-side  where  we  lay  the  night  before,  and  stay  there  till  we 
could  make  us  houses,  as  he  called  them,  to  carry  with  us  to 
lodge  in  every  night.  As  he  began  a  little  to  understand  our 
speech,  and  we  very  well  to  understand  his  signs,  we  easily  knew 
what  he  meant,  and  that  we  should  there  make  mats  (for  we 
remembered  that  we  saw  a  great  deal  of  matting  or  bass  there, 
that  the  natives  make  mats  of)  —  I  say,  that  we  should  make 
large  mats  there  for  covering  our  huts  or  tents  to  lodge  in  at  night. 

We  all  approved  this  advice,  and  immediately  resolved  to  go 
back  that  one  day's  journey,  resolving,  though  we  carried  less 
provisions,  we  would  carry  mats  with  us  to  cover  us  in  the  night. 
Some  of  the  nimblest  of  us  got  back  to  the  river  with  more  ease 
than  we  had  travelled  it  the  day  before ;  but,  as  we  were  not  in 
haste,  the  rest  made  a  halt,  encamped  another  night,  and  came 
to  us  the  next  day. 

In  our  return  of  this  day's  journey,  our  men  that  made  two 
days  of  it  met  with  a  very  surprising  thing,  that  gave  them  some 
reason  to  be  careful  how  they  parted  company  again.  The  case 
was  this  :  —  The  second  day  in  the  morning,  before  they  had  gone 
half  a  mile,  looking  behind  them  they  saw  a  vast  cloud  of  sand 
or  dust  rise  in  the  air,  as  we  see  sometimes  in  the  roads  in 
summer  when  it  is  very  dusty  and  a  large  drove  of  cattle  are 
coming,  only  very  much  greater ;  and  they  could  easily  perceive 
that  it  came  after  them  ;  and  it  came  on  faster  as  they  went  from 
it.  The  cloud  of  sand  was  so  great  that  they  could  not  see  what  it 
was  that  raised  it,  and  concluded  that  it  was  some  army  of 
enemies  that  pursued  them ;  but  then  considering  that  they  came 
from  the  vast  uninhabited  wilderness,  they  knew  it  was  im- 
possible any  nation  or  people  that  way  should  have  intelligence 
of  them  or  the  way  of  their  march ;  and  therefore,  if  it  was  an 
army,  it  must  be  of  such  as  they  were,  traveUing  that  way  by 
accident.  On  the  other  hand,  as  they  knew  that  there  were  no 
horses  in  the  country,  and  that  they  came  on  so  fast,  they  con- 
cluded that  it  must  be  some  vast  collection  of  wild  beasts,  perhaps 
making  to  the  hill  country  for  food  or  water,  and  that  they 
should  be  all  devoured  or  trampled  under  foot  by  their  multitude. 


i86  DANIEL   DEFOE 

Upon  this  thought,  they  very  prudently  observed  which  way 
the  cloud  seemed  to  point,  and  they  turned  a  httle  out  of  their 
way  to  the  north,  supposing  it  might  pass  by  them.  When  they 
were  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  they  halted  to  see  what  it  might 
be.  One  of  the  negroes,  a  nimbler  fellow  then  the  rest,  went 
back  a  httle,  and  came  in  a  few  minutes  running  as  fast  as  the 
heavy  sands  would  allow,  and  by  signs  gave  them  to  know  that 
it  was  a  great  herd,  or  drove,  or  whatever  it  might  be  called,  of 
vast  monstrous  elephants. 

As  it  was  a  sight  our  men  had  never  seen,  they  were  desirous  to 
see  it,  and  yet  a  little  uneasy  at  the  danger  too ;  for  though  an 
elephant  is  a  heavy  unwieldy  creature,  yet  in  the  deep  sand,  which 
is  nothing  at  all  to  them,  they  marched  at  a  great  rate,  and  would 
soon  have  tired  our  people,  if  they  had  had  far  to  go,  and  had 
been  pursued  by  them. 

Our  gunner  was  with  them,  and  had  a  great  mind  to  have  gone 
close  up  to  one  of  the  outermost  of  them,  and  to  have  clapped  his 
piece  to  his  ear,  and  to  have  fired  into  him,  because  he  had  been 
told  no  shot  would  penetrate  them  ;  but  they  all  dissuaded  him, 
lest  upon  the  noise  they  should  all  turn  upon  and  pursue  us ; 
so  he  was  reasoned  out  of  it,  and  let  them  pass,  which,  in  our 
people's  circumstances,  was  certainly  the  right  way. 

They  were  between  twenty  and  thirty  in  number,  but  prodi- 
gious great  ones ;  and  though  they  often  showed  our  men  that 
they  saw  them,  yet  they  did  not  turn  out  of  their  way,  or  take  any 
other  notice  of  them  than,  as  we  might  say,  just  to  look  at  them. 
We  that  were  before  saw  the  cloud  of  dust  they  raised,  but  we  had 
thought  it  had  been  our  own  caravan,  and  so  took  no  notice ; 
but  as  they  bent  their  course  one  point  of  the  compass,  or  there- 
abouts, to  the  southward  of  the  east,  and  we  went  due  east, 
they  passed  by  us  at  some  httle  distance ;  so  that  we  did  not 
see  them,  or  know  anything  of  them,  till  evening,  when  our 
men  came  to  us  and  gave  us  this  account  of  them.  However^ 
this  was  a  useful  experiment  for  our  future  conduct  in  passing  the 
desert,  as  you  shall  hear  in  its  place. 

We  were  now  upon  our  work,  and  our  black  prince  was  head 
surveyor,  for  he  was  an  excellent  mat-maker  himself,  and  all  his 
men  understood  it,  so  that  they  soon  made  us  near  a  hundred 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    187 

mats ;  and  as  every  man,  I  mean  of  the  negroes,  carried  one,  it 
was  no  manner  of  load,  and  we  did  not  carry  an  ounce  of  pro- 
visions the  less.  The  greatest  burthen  was  to  carry  six  long  poles, 
besides  some  shorter  stakes ;  but  the  negroes  made  an  advantage 
of  that,  for  carrying  them  between  two,  they  made  the  luggage 
of  provisions  which  they  had  to  carry  so  much  the  Hghter,  binding 
it  upon  two  poles,  and  so  made  three  couple  of  them.  As  soon 
as  we  saw  this,  we  made  a  little  advantage  of  it  too  ;  for  having 
three  or  four  bags,  called  bottles  (I  mean  skins  to  carry  water), 
more  than  the  men  could  carry,  we  got  them  filled,  and  carried 
them  this  way,  which  was  a  day's  water  and  more,  for  our  journey. 

Having  now  ended  our  work,  made  our  mats,  and  fully  re- 
cruited our  stores  of  all  things  necessary,  and  having  made  us 
abundance  of  small  ropes  of  matting  for  ordinary  use,  as  we  might 
have  occasion,  we  set  forward  again,  having  interrupted  our 
journey  eight  days  in  all,  upon  this  affair.  To  our  great  comfort, 
the  night  before  we  set  out  there  fell  a  very  violent  shower  of 
rain,  the  effects  of  which  we  found  in  the  sand  ;  though  the  heat 
of  one  day  dried  the  surface  as  much  as  before,  yet  it  was  harder 
at  bottom,  not  so  heavy,  and  was  cooler  to  our  feet,  by  which 
means  we  marched,  as  we  reckoned,  about  fourteen  miles  instead 
of  seven,  and  with  much  more  ease. 

When  we  came  to  encamp,  we  had  all  things  ready,  for  we  had 
fitted  our  tent,  and  set  it  up  for  trial,  where  we  made  it ;  so  that, 
in  less  than  an  hour,  we  had  a  large  tent  raised,  with  an  inner  and 
outer  apartment,  and  two  entrances.  In  one  we  lay  ourselves, 
in  the  other  our  negroes,  having  light  pleasant  mats  over  us, 
and  others  at  the  same  time  under  us.  Also  we  had  a  little 
place  without  all  for  our  buffaloes,  for  they  deserved  our  care, 
being  very  useful  to  us,  besides  carrying  forage  and  water  for 
themselves.  Their  forage  was  a  root,  which  our  black  prince 
directed  us  to  find,  not  much  unlike  a  parsnip,  very  moist  and 
nourishing,  of  which  there  was  plenty  wherever  we  came,  this 
horrid  desert  excepted. 

When  we  came  the  next  morning  to  decamp,  our  negroes 
took  down  the  tent,  and  pulled  up  the  stakes ;  and  all  was  in 
motion  in  as  httle  time  as  it  was  set  up.  In  this  posture  we 
marched  eight  days,  and  yet  could  see  no  end,  no  change  of  our 


1 88  DANIEL   DEFOE 

prospect,  but  all  looking  as  wild  and  dismal  as  at  the  beginning. 
If  there  was  any  alteration,  it  was  that  the  sand  was  nowhere  so 
deep  and  heavy  as  it  was  the  first  three  days.  This  we  thought 
might  be  because,  for  six  months  of  the  year  the  winds  blowing 
west  (as  for  the  other  six  they  blow  constantly  east),  the  sand  was 
driven  violently  to  the  side  of  the  desert  where  we  set  out,  where 
the  mountains  lying  very  high,  the  easterly  monsoons,  when  they 
blew,  had  not  the  same  power  to  drive  it  back  again ;  and  this 
was  confirmed  by  our  finding  the  like  depth  of  sand  on  the 
farthest  extent  of  the  desert  to  the  west. 

It  was  the  ninth  day  of  our  travel  in  this  wilderness,  when  we 
came  to  the  view  of  a  great  lake  of  water ;  and  you  may  be  sure 
this  was  a  particular  satisfaction  to  us,  because  we  had  not  water 
left  for  above  two  or  three  days  more,  at  our  shortest  allowance ; 
I  mean  allowing  water  for  our  return,  if  we  had  been  driven  to  the 
necessity  of  it.  Our  water  had  served  us  two  days  longer  than 
expected,  our  buffaloes  having  found,  for  two  or  three  days,  a 
kind  of  herb  like  a  broad  flat  thistle,  though  without  any  prickle, 
spreading  on  the  ground,  and  growing  in  the  sand,  which  they 
ate  freely  of,  and  which  suppHed  them  for  drink  as  well  as  forage. 

The  next  day,  which  was  the  tenth  from  our  setting  out,  we 
came  to  the  edge  of  this  lake,  and,  very  happily  for  us,  we  came 
to  it  at  the  south  point  of  it,  for  to  the  north  we  could  see  no  end 
of  it ;  so  we  passed  by  it  and  travelled  three  days  by  the  side  of 
it,  which  was  a  great  comfort  to  us,  because  it  Hghtened  our  bur- 
then there  being  no  need  to  carry  water  when  we  had  it  in  view. 
And  yet,  though  here  was  so  much  water,  we  found  but  very 
little  alteration  in  the  desert;  no  trees,  no  grass  or  herbage, 
except  that  thistle,  as  I  called  it,  and  two  or  three  more  plants, 
which  we  did  not  understand,  of  which  the  desert  began  to  be 
pretty  full. 

But  as  we  were  refreshed  with  the  neighbourhood  of  this  lake 
of  water,  so  we  were  now  gotten  among  a  prodigious  number  of 
ravenous  inhabitants,  the  like  whereof,  it  is  most  certain,  the 
eye  of  man  never  saw  ;  for  as  I  firmly  beHeve  that  never  man  nor 
body  of  men  passed  this  desert  since  the  flood,  so  I  believe  there 
is  not  the  like  collection  of  fierce,  ravenous,  and  devouring  crea- 
tures in  the  world ;  I  mean  not  in  any  particular  place. 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    189 

For  a  day's  journey  before  we  came  to  this  lake,  and  all  the 
three  days  we  were  passing  by  it,  and  for  six  or  seven  days' 
march  after  it,  the  ground  was  scattered  with  elephants'  teeth  in 
such  a  number  as  is  incredible ;  and  as  some  of  them  have  lain 
there  for  some  hundreds  of  years,  so,  seeing  the  substance  of  them 
scarce  ever  decays,  they  may  lie  there,  for  aught  I  know,  to  the 
end  of  time.  The  size  of  some  of  them  is,  it  seems,  to  those  to 
whom  I  have  reported  it,  as  incredible  as  the  number ;  and  I  can 
assure  you  there  were  several  so  heavy  as  the  strongest  man 
among  us  could  not  lift.  As  to  number,  I  question  not  but  there 
are  enough  to  load  a  thousand  sail  of  the  biggest  ships  in  the  world, 
by  which  I  may  be  understood  to  mean  that  the  quantity  is  not 
to  be  conceived  of ;  seeing  that  as  they  lasted  in  view  for  above 
eighty  miles'  travelling,  so  they  might  continue  as  far  to  the  right 
hand,  and  to  the  left  as  far,  and  many  times  as  far,  for  aught  we 
knew ;  for  it  seems  the  number  of  elephants  hereabouts  is  pro- 
digiously great.  In  one  place  in  particular  we  saw  the  head  of  an 
elephant,  with  several  teeth  in  it,  but  one  of  the  biggest  that  ever 
I  saw ;  the  flesh  was  consumed,  to  be  sure,  many  hundred  years 
before,  and  all  the  other  bones ;  but  three  of  our  strongest  men 
could  not  lift  this  skull  and  teeth ;  the  great  tooth,  I  believe, 
weighed  at  least  three  hundredweight ;  and  this  was  particularly 
remarkable  to  me,  that  I  observed  the  whole  skull  was  as  good 
ivory  as  the  teeth,  and,  I  believe,  altogether  weighed  at  least 
six  hundredweight ;  and  though  I  do  not  know  but,  by  the  same 
rule,  all  the  bones  of  the  elephant  may  be  ivory,  yet  I  think  there 
is  this  just  objection  against  it  from  the  example  before  me,  that 
then  all  the  other  bones  of  this  elephant  would  have  been  there 
as  well  as  the  head. 

I  proposed  to  our  gunner,  that,  seeing  we  had  travelled  now 
fourteen  days  without  intermission,  and  that  we  had  water  here 
for  our  refreshment,  and  no  want  of  food  yet,  nor  any  fear  of  it, 
we  should  rest  our  people  a  little,  and  see,  at  the  same  time,  if 
perhaps  we  might  kill  some  creatures  that  were  proper  for  food. 
The  gunner,  who  had  more  forecast  of  that  kind  than  I  had, 
agreed  to  the  proposal,  and  added,  why  might  we  not  try  to  catch 
som.e  fish  out  of  the  lake  ?  The  first  thing  we  had  before  us  was 
to  try  if  we  could  make  any  hooks,  and  this  indeed  put  our 


I90  DANIEL   DEFOE 

artificer  to  his  trumps  ;  however,  with  some  labour  and  difficulty, 
he  did  it,  and  we  catched  fresh  fish  of  several  kinds.  How  they 
came  there,  none  but  He  that  made  the  lake  and  all  the  world 
knows ;  for,  to  be  sure,  no  human  hands  ever  put  any  in  there, 
or  pulled  any  out  before. 

We  not  only  catched  enough  for  our  present  refreshment,  but 
we  dried  several  large  fishes,  of  kinds  which  I  cannot  describe, 
in  the  sun,  by  which  we  lengthened  out  our  provision  con- 
siderably ;  for  the  heat  of  the  sun  dried  them  so  effectually 
without  salt  that  they  were  perfectly  cured,  dry,  and  hard,  in 
one  day's  time. 

We  rested  ourselves  here  five  days  ;  during  which  time  we  had 
abundance  of  pleasant  adventures  with  the  wild  creatures,  too 
many  to  relate.  One  of  them  was  very  particular,  which  was  a 
chase  between  a  she-lion,  or  lioness,  and  a  large  deer ;  and  though 
the  deer  is  naturally  a  very  nimble  creature,  and  she  flew  by  us 
like  the  wind,  having,  perhaps,  about  300  yards  the  start  of  the 
lion,  yet  we  found  the  lion,  by  her  strength,  and  the  goodness  of 
her  lungs,  got  ground  of  her.  They  passed  by  us  within  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  and  we  had  a  view  of  them  a  great  way,  when, 
having  given  them  over,  we  were  surprised,  about  an  hour  after, 
to  see  them  come  thundering  back  again  on  the  other  side  of  us, 
and  then  the  lion  was  within  thirty  or  forty  yards  of  her ;  and 
both  straining  to  the  extremity  of  their  speed,  when  the  deer, 
coming  to  the  lake,  plunged  into  the  water,  and  swam  for  her 
life,  as  she  had  before  run  for  it. 

The  lioness  plunged  in  after  her,  and  swam  a  little  way,  but 
came  back  again  ;  and  when  she  was  got  upon  the  land  she  set  up 
the  most  hideous  roar  that  ever  I  heard  in  my  life,  as  if  done  in 
the  rage  of  having  lost  her  prey. 

We  walked  out  morning  and  evening  constantly ;  the  middle 
of  the  day  we  refreshed  ourselves  under  our  tent.  But  one  morn- 
ing early  we  saw  another  chase,  which  more  nearly  concerned  us 
than  the  other ;  for  our  black  prince,  walking  by  the  side  of  the 
lake,  was  set  upon  by  a  vast,  great  crocodile,  which  came  out  of 
the  lake  upon  him  ;  and  though  he  was  very  light  of  foot,  yet 
it  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  get  away.  He  fled  amain  to  us, 
and  the  truth  is,  we  did  not  know  what  to  do,  for  we  were  told 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  Cx\PTAIN  SINGLETON    191 

no  bullet  would  enter  her ;  and  we  found  it  so  at  first,  for  though 
three  of  our  men  fired  at  her,  yet  she  did  not  mind  them ;  but 
my  friend  the  gunner,  a  venturous  fellow,  of  a  bold  heart,  and  great 
presence  of  mind,  went  up  so  near  as  to  thrust  the  muzzle  of  his 
piece  into  her  mouth,  and  fired,  but  let  his  piece  fall,  and  ran  for 
it  the  very  moment  he  had  fired  it.  The  creature  raged  a  great 
while,  and  spent  its  fury  upon  the  gun,  making  marks  upon  the 
very  iron  with  its  teeth,  but  after  some  time  fainted  and  died. 

Our  negroes  spread  the  banks  of  the  lake  all  this  while  for  game, 
and  at  length  killed  us  three  deer,  one  of  them  very  large,  the 
other  two  very  small.  There  was  water-fowl  also  in  the  lake, 
but  we  never  came  near  enough  to  them  to  shoot  any ;  and  as 
for  the  desert,  we  saw  no  fowls  anywhere  in  it  but  at  the  lake. 

We  likewise  killed  two  or  three  civet  cats ;  but  their  flesh  is 
the  worst  of  carrion.  We  saw  abundance  of  elephants  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  observed  they  always  go  in  very  good  company,  that 
is  to  say,  abundance  of  them  together,  and  always  extended  in  a 
fair  line  of  battle ;  and  this,  they  say,  is  the  way  they  defend 
themselves  from  their  enemies ;  for  if  lions  or  tigers,  wolves  or 
any  creatures,  attack  them,  they  being  drawn  in  a  line,  sometimes 
reaching  five  or  six  miles  in  length,  whatever  comes  in  their  way 
is  sure  to  be  trod  under  foot,  or  beaten  in  pieces  with  their  trunks, 
or  lifted  up  in  the  air  with  their  trunks  ;  so  that  if  a  hundred  lions 
or  tigers  were  coming  along,  if  they  meet  a  line  of  elephants,  they 
will  always  fly  back  till  they  see  room  to  pass  by  the  right  hand 
or  the  left ;  and  if  they  did  not,  it  would  be  impossible  for  one  of 
them  to  escape ;  for  the  elephant,  though  a  heavy  creature,  is 
yet  so  dexterous  and  nimble  with  his  trunk,  that  he  will  not  fail 
to  lift  up  the  heaviest  lion,  or  any  other  wild  creature,  and  throw 
him  up  in  the  air  quite  over  his  back,  and  then  trample  him  to 
death  with  his  feet.  We  saw  several  lines  of  battle  thus ;  we 
saw  one  so  long  that  indeed  there  was  no  end  of  it  to  be  seen,  and 
I  believe  there  might  be  2000  elephants  in  row  or  line.  They 
are  not  beasts  of  prey,  but  live  upon  the  herbage  of  the  field,  as 
an  ox  does ;  and  it  is  said,  that  though  they  are  so  great  a  crea- 
ture, yet  that  a  smaller  quantity  of  forage  supplies  one  of  them 
than  will  suffice  a  horse. 

The  numbers  of  this  kind  of  creature  that  are  in  those  parts 


192  DANIEL   DEFOE 

are  inconceivable,  as  may  be  gathered  from  the  prodigious  quan- 
tity of  teeth  which,  as  I  said,  we  saw  in  this  vast  desert ;  and  in- 
deed we  saw  a  hundred  of  them  to  one  of  any  other  kind. 

One  evening  we  were  very  much  surprised.  We  were  most  of 
us  laid  down  on  our  mats  to  sleep,  when  our  watch  came  running 
in  among  us,  being  frighted  with  the  sudden  roaring  of  some  lions 
just  by  them,  which,  it  seems,  they  had  not  seen,  the  night  being 
dark,  till  they  were  just  upon  them.  There  was,  as  it  proved,  an 
old  lion  and  his  whole  family,  for  there  was  the  lioness  and  three 
young  lions,  besides  the  old  king,  who  was  a  monstrous  great  one. 
One  of  the  young  ones  —  who  were  good,  large,  well-grown  ones 
too  —  leaped  up  upon  one  of  our  negroes,  who  stood  sentinel, 
before  he  saw  him,  at  which  he  was  heartily  frighted,  cried  out, 
and  ran  into  the  tent.  Our  other  man,  who  had  a  gun,  had  not 
presence  of  mind  at  first  to  shoot  him,  but  struck  him  with  the 
butt-end  of  his  piece,  which  made  him  whine  a  little,  and  then 
growl  at  him  fearfully ;  but  the  fellow  retired,  and,  we  being  all 
alarmed,  three  of  our  men  snatched  up  their  guns,  ran  to  the 
tent  door,  where  they  saw  the  great  old  lion  by  the  fire  of  his 
eyes,  and  first  fired  at  him,  but,  we  supposed,  missed  him,  or  at 
least  did  not  kill  him ;  for  they  went  all  off,  but  raised  a  most 
hideous  roar,  which,  as  if  they  had  called  for  help,  brought  down 
a  prodigious  number  of  lions,  and  other  furious  creatures,  we  know 
not  what,  about  them,  for  we  could  not  see  them ;  but  there  was 
a  noise,  and  yelling  and  howling,  and  all  sorts  of  such  wilderness 
music  on  every  side  of  us,  as  if  all  the  beasts  of  the  desert  were 
assembled  to  devour  us. 

We  asked  our  black  prince  what  we  should  do  with  them. 
"Me  go,"  says  he,  "and  fright  them  all."  So  he  snatches  up  two 
or  three  of  the  worst  of  our  mats,  and  getting  one  of  our  men  to 
strike  some  fire,  he  hangs  the  mat  up  at  the  end  of  a  pole,  and 
set  it  on  fire,  and  it  blazed  abroad  a  good  while ;  at  which  the 
creatures  all  moved  off,  for  we  heard  them  roar,  and  make  their 
bellowing  noise  at  a  great  distance.  "Well,"  says  our  gunner, 
"if  that  will  do,  we  need  not  burn  our  mats,  which  are  our  beds 
to  lay  under  us,  and  our  tilting  to  cover  us.  Let  me  alone,"  says 
he.  So  he  comes  back  into  our  tent,  and  falls  to  making  some 
artificial  fireworks  and  the  like  ;   and  he  gave  our  sentinels  some 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    193 

to  be  ready  at  hand  upon  occasion,  and  particularly  he  placed  a 
great  piece  of  wild-iire  upon  the  same  pole  that  the  mat  had  been 
tied  to,  and  set  it  on  lire,  and  that  burnt  there  so  long  that  all 
the  wild  creatures  left  us  for  that  time. 

However,  we  began  to  be  weary  of  such  company ;  and,  to  be 
rid  of  them,  we  set  forward  again  two  days  sooner  than  we  in- 
tended. We  found  now,  that  though  the  desert  did  not  end,  nor 
could  we  see  any  appearance  of  it,  yet  that  the  earth  was  pretty 
full  of  green  stuff  of  one  sort  or  another,  so  that  our  cattle  had  no 
want;  and  secondly,  that  there  were  several  little  rivers  which 
ran  into  the  lake,  and  so  long  as  the  country  continued  low,  we 
found  water  sufi&cient,  which  eased  us  very  much  in  our  carriage, 
and  we  went  on  still  sixteen  days  more  without  yet  coming  to 
any  appearance  of  better  soil.  After  this  we  found  the  country 
rise  a  little,  and  by  that  we  perceived  that  the  water  would 
fail  us ;  so,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  we  filled  our  bladder-bottles 
with  water.  We  found  the  country  rising  gradually  thus  for 
three,  days  continually,  when,  on  the  sudden,  we  perceived  that, 
though  we  had  mounted  up  insensibly,  yet  that  we  were  on  the 
top  of  a  very  high  ridge  of  hills,  though  not  such  as  at  first. 

When  we  came  to  look  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  hills,  we 
saw,  to  the  great  joy  of  all  our  hearts,  that  the  desert  was  at  an 
end ;  that  the  country  was  clothed  with  green,  abundance  of 
trees,  and  a  large  river ;  and  we  made  no  doubt  but  that  we 
should  find  people  and  cattle  also;  and  here,  by  our  gunner's 
account,  who  kept  our  computations,  we  had  marched  about 
400  miles  over  this  dismal  place  of  horror,  having  been  four-and- 
thirty  days  a-doing  of  it,  and  consequently  were  come  about 
1 100  miles  of  our  journey. 

[Singleton,  with  his  companions,  finally  reaches  the  west  coast  of  Africa, 
whence  he  embarks  for  England.  Here  he  remains  until  his  money  is  gone, 
when  he  joins  a  pirate  crew  and  starts  out  upon  new  adventure.] 

******* 

We  cruised  near  two  years  in  those  seas,  chiefly  upon  the 
Spaniards ;  not  that  we  made  any  difficulty  of  taking  English 
ships,  or  Dutch,  or  French,  if  they  came  in  our  way;  and  par- 
ticularly. Captain  Wilmot  attacked  a  New  England  ship  bound 


194 


DANIEL   DEFOE 


from  the  Madeiras  to  Jamaica,  and  another  bound  from  New 
York  to  Barbados,  with  provisions ;  which  last  was  a  very 
happy  supply  to  us.  But  the  reason  why  we  meddled  as  little 
with  English  vessels  as  we  could,  was,  first,  because,  if  they  were 
ships  of  any  force,  we  were  sure  of  more  resistance  from  them ; 
and,  secondly,  because  we  found  the  English  ships  had  less  booty 
when  taken,  for  the  Spaniards  generally  had  money  on  board, 
and  that  was  what  we  best  knew  what  to  do  with.  Captain 
Wilmot  was,  indeed,  more  particularly  cruel  when  he  took  any 
EngHsh  vessel,  that  they  might  not  too  soon  have  advice  of  him 
in  England ;  and  so  the  men-of-war  have  orders  to  look  out  for 
him.     But  this  part  I  bury  in  silence  for  the  present. 

We  increased  our  stock  in  these  two  years  considerably,  having 
taken  60,000  pieces  of  eight  in  one  vessel,  and  100,000  in  another ; 
and  being  thus  first  grown  rich,  we  resolved  to  be  strong  too,  for 
we  had  taken  a  brigantine  built  at  Virginia,  an  excellent  sea-boat, 
and  a  good  sailer,  and  able  to  carry  twelve  guns ;  and  a  large 
Spanish  frigate-built  ship,  that  sailed  incomparably  well  also, 
and  which  afterwards,  by  the  help  of  good  carpenters,  we  fitted 
up  to  carry  twenty-eight  guns.  And  now  we  wanted  more  hands, 
so  we  put  away  for  the  Bay  of  Campeachy,  not  doubting  we 
should  ship  as  many  men  there  as  we  pleased ;   and  so  we  did. 

Here  we  sold  the  sloop  that  I  was  in ;  and  Captain  Wilmot 
keeping  his  own  ship,  I  took  the  command  of  the  Spanish  frigate 
as  captain,  and  my  comrade  Harris  as  eldest  lieutenant,  and  a 
bold  enterprising  fellow  he  was,  as  any  the  world  afforded.  One 
culverdine  was  put  into  the  brigantine,  so  that  we  were  now 
three  stout  ships,  well  manned,  and  victualled  for  twelve  months  ; 
for  we  had  taken  two  or  three  sloops  from  New  England  and  New 
York,  laden  with  flour,  peas,  and  barrelled  beef  and  pork,  going 
for  Jamaica  and  Barbados ;  and  for  more  beef  we  went  on  shore 
on  the  island  of  Cuba,  where  we  killed  as  many  black  cattle  as 
we  pleased,  though  we  had  very  little  salt  to  cure  them. 

Out  of  all  the  prizes  we  took  here  we  took  their  powder  and 
bullet,  their  small-arms  and  cutlasses ;  and  as  for  their  men, 
we  always  took  the  surgeon  and  the  carpenter,  as  persons  who 
were  of  particular  use  to  us  upon  many  occasions ;  nor  were  they 
always  unwilling  to  go  with  us,  though  for  their  own  security,  in 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    195 

case  of  accidents,  they  might  easily  pretend  they  were  carried 
away  by  force ;  of  which  I  shall  give  a  pleasant  account  in  the 
course  of  my  other  expeditions. 

We  had  one  very  merry  fellow  here,  a  Quaker,  whose  name  was 
William  Walters,  whom  we  took  out  of  a  sloop  bound  from  Penn- 
sylvania to  Barbados.  He  was  a  surgeon,  and  they  called  him 
doctor ;  but  he  was  not  employed  in  the  sloop  as  a  surgeon,  but 
was  going  to  Barbados  to  get  a  berth,  as  the  sailors  call  it.  How- 
ever, he  had  all  his  surgeon's  chests  on  board,  and  we  made  him 
go  with  us,  and  take  all  his  miplements  with  him.  He  was  a 
comic  fellow  indeed,  a  man  of  very  good  solid  sense,  and  an  ex- 
cellent surgeon ;  but,  what  was  worth  all,  very  good-humoured 
and  pleasant  in  his  conversation,  and  a  bold,  stout,  brave  fellow 
too,  as  any  we  had  among  us. 

I  found  William,  as  I  thought,  not  very  averse  to  go  along 
with  us,  and  yet  resolved  to  do  it  so  that  it  might  be  apparent  he 
was  taken  away  by  force,  and  to  this  purpose  he  comes  to  me. 
"Friend,"  says  he,  "thou  sayest  I  must  go  with  thee,  and  it  is 
not  in  my  power  to  resist  thee  if  I  would ;  but  I  desire  thou  wilt 
oblige  the  master  of  the  sloop  which  I  am  on  board  to  certify 
under  his  hand,  that  I  was  taken  away  by  force  and  against  my 
will."  And  this  he  said  with  so  much  satisfaction  in  his  face, 
that  I  could  not  but  underdstand  him.  "Ay,  ay,"  says  I, 
''whether  it  be  against  your  will  or  no,  I'll  make  him  and  all  the 
men  give  you  a  certificate  of  it,  or  I'll  take  them  all  along  with  us, 
and  keep  them  till  they  do."  So  I  drew  up  a  certificate  myself, 
wherein  I  wrote  that  he  was  taken  away  by  main  force,  as  a 
prisoner,  by  a  pirate  ship  ;  that  they  carried  away  his  chest  and 
instruments  first,  and  then  bound  his  hands  behind  him  and 
forced  him  into  their  boat ;  and  this  was  signed  by  the  master 
and  all  his  men. 

Accordingly  I  fell  a-swearing  at  him,  and  called  to  my  men  to 
tie  his  hands  behind  him,  and  so  we  put  him  into  our  boat  and 
carried  him  away.  When  I  had  him  on  board,  I  called  him  to  me. 
"Now,  friend,"  says  I,  "I  have  brought  you  away  by  force,  it  is 
true,  but  I  am  not  of  the  opinion  I  have  brought  you  away  so 
much  again  your  will  as  they  imagine.  Come,"  says  I,  "you 
will  be  a  useful  man  to  us,  and  you  shall  have  very  good  usage 


196  DANIEL   DEFOE 

among  us."  So  I  unbound  his  hands,  and  first  ordered  all  things 
that  belonged  to  hini  to  be  restored  to  him,  and  our  captain  gave 
him  a  dram. 

"Thou  hast  dealt  friendly  by  me,"  says  he,  "and  I  will  be 
plain  with  thee,  whether  I  came  willingly  to  thee  or  not.  I  shall 
make  myself  as  useful  to  thee  as  I  can,  but  thou  knowest  it  is  not 
my  business  to  meddle  when  thou  art  to  fight."  "No,  no,"  says 
the  captain,  "but  you  may  meddle  a  httle  when  we  share  the 
money."  "Those  things  are  useful  to  furnish  a  surgeon's  chest," 
says  William,  and  smiled,  "but  I  shall  be  moderate." 

In  short,  William  was  a  most  agreeable  companion ;  but  he  had 
the  better  of  us  in  this  part,  that  if  we  were  taken  we  were  sure 
to  be  hanged,  and  he  was  sure  to  escape ;  and  he  knew  it  well 
enough.  But,  in  short,  he  was  a  sprightly  fellow,  and  fitter  to  be 
captain  than  any  of  us.  I  shall  have  often  an  occasion  to  speak  of 
him  in  the  rest  of  the  story. 

Our  cruising  so  long  in  these  seas  began  now  to  be  so  well 
known,  that  not  in  England  only,  but  in  France  and  Spain, 
accounts  had  been  made  public  of  our  adventures,  and  many 
stories  told  how  we  murdered  the  people  in  cold  blood,  tying 
them  back  to  back,  and  throwing  them  into  the  sea ;  one  half  of 
which,  however,  was  not  true,  though  more  was  done  than  is  fit 
to  speak  of  here. 

The  consequence  of  this,  however,  was,  that  several  EngHsh 
men-of-war  were  sent  to  the  West  Indies,  and  were  particularly 
instructed  to  cruise  in  the  Bay  of  Mexico,  and  the  Gulf  of  Florida, 
and  among  the  Bahama  islands,  if  possible,  to  attack  us.  We 
were  not  so  ignorant  of  things  as  not  to  expect  this,  after  so  long 
a  stay  in  that  part  of  the  world  ;  but  the  first  certain  account  we 
had  of  them  was  at  Honduras,  when  a  vessel  coming  in  from 
Jamaica  told  us  that  two  English  men-of-war  were  coming  directly 
from  Jamaica  thither  in  quest  of  us.  We  were  indeed  as  it  were 
embayed,  and  could  not  have  made  the  least  shift  to  have  got  off, 
if  they  had  come  directly  to  us ;  but,  as  it  happened,  somebody 
had  informed  them  that  we  were  in  the  Bay  of  Campeachy,  and 
they  went  directly  thither,  by  which  wc  were  not  only  free  of  them, 
but  were  so  much  to  the  windward  of  them,  that  they  could  not 
make  any  attempt  upon  us,  though  they  had  known  we  were  there. 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    197 

We  took  this  advantage,  and  stood  away  for  Carthagena,  and 
from  thence  with  great  difhculty  beat  it  up  at  a  distance  from 
under  the  shore  for  St.  Martha,  till  we  came  to  the  Dutch  island 
of  Curagoa,  and  from  thence  to  the  island  of  Tobago,  which,  as 
before,  was  our  rendezvous;  which,  being  a  deserted,  unin- 
habited island,  we  at  the  same  time  made  use  of  for  a  retreat. 
Here  the  captain  of  the  brigantine  died,  and  Captain  Harris,  at 
that  time  my  lieutenant,  took  the  command  of  the  brigantine. 

Here  we  came  to  a  resolution  to  go  away  to  the  coast  of  Brazil, 
and  from  thence  to  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  so  for  the  East 
Indies ;  but  Captain  Harris,  as  I  have  said,  being  now  captain  of 
the  brigantine,  alleged  that  his  ship  was  too  small  for  so  long  a 
voyage,  but  that,  if  Captain  Wilmot  would  consent,  he  would 
take  the  hazard  of  another  cruise,  and  he  would  follow  us  in  the 
first  ship  he  could  take.  So  we  appointed  our  rendezvous  to  be 
at  Madagascar,  which  was  done  by  my  recommendation  of  the 
place,  and  the  plenty  of  provisions  to  be  had  there. 

Accordingly,  he  went  away  from  us  in  an  evil  hour  ;  for,  instead 
of  taking  a  ship  to  follow  us,  he  was  taken,  as  I  heard  afterwards, 
by  an  English  man-of-war,  and  being  laid  in  irons,  died  of  mere 
grief  and  anger  before  he  came  to  England.  His  lieutenant,  I 
have  heard,  was  afterwards  executed  in  England  for  a  pirate ; 
and  this  was  the  end  of  the  man  who  first  brought  me  into  this 
unhappy  trade. 

We  parted  from  Tobago  three  days  after,  bending  our  course 
for  the  coast  of  Brazil,  but  had  not  been  at  sea  above  twenty- 
four  hours,  when  we  were  separated  by  a  terrible  storm,  which 
held  three  days,  with  very  Httle  abatement  or  intermission.  In 
this  juncture  Captain  Wilmot  happened,  unluckily,  to  be  on 
board  my  ship,  to  his  great  mortification ;  for  we  not  only  lost 
sight  of  his  ship,  but  never  saw  her  more  till  we  came  to  Madagas- 
car, where  she  was  cast  away.  In  short,  after  having  in  this 
tempest  lost  our  fore-topmast,  we  were  forced  to  put  back  to  the 
isle  of  Tobago  for  shelter,  and  to  repair  our  damage,  which 
brought  us  all  very  near  our  destruction. 

We  were  no  sooner  on  shore  here,  and  all  very  busy  looking 
out  for  a  piece  of  timber  for  a  topmast,  but  we  perceived  standing 
in  for  the  shore  an  Enghsh  man-of-war  of  thirty-six  guns.     It  was 


1 98  DANIEL   DEFOE 

a  great  surprise  to  us  indeed,  because  we  were  disabled  so  much  ; 
but,  to  our  great  good  fortune,  we  lay  pretty  snug  and  close 
among  the  high  rocks,  and  the  man-of-war  did  not  see  us,  but 
stood  off  again  upon  his  cruise.  So  we  only  observed  which 
way  she  went,  and  at  night,  leaving  our  work,  resolved  to  stand 
off  to  sea,  steering  the  contrary  way  from  that  which  we  observed 
she  went ;  and  this,  we  found,  had  the  desired  success,  for  we  saw 
him  no  more.  We  had  gotten  an  old  mizzen-topmast  on  board, 
which  made  us  a  jury  fore-topmast  for  the  present ;  and  so  we 
stood  away  for  the  isle  of  Trinidad,  where,  though  there  were 
Spaniards  on  shore,  yet  we  landed  some  men  with  our  boat,  and 
cut  a  very  good  piece  of  fir  to  make  us  a  new  topmast,  which  we 
got  fitted  up  effectually ;  and  also  we  got  some  cattle  here  to  eke 
out  our  provisions  ;  and  calling  a  council  of  war  among  ourselves, 
we  resolved  to  quit  those  seas  for  the  present,  and  steer  away  for 
the  coast  of  Brazil. 

The  first  thing  we  attempted  here  was  only  getting  fresh  water, 
but  we  learnt  that  there  lay  the  Portuguese  fleet  at  the  bay  of 
All  Saints,  bound  for  Lisbon,  ready  to  sail,  and  only  waited  for  a 
fair  wind.  This  made  us  lie  by,  wishing  to  see  them  put  to  sea, 
and,  accordingly  as  they  were  with  or  without  convoy,  to  attack 
or  avoid  them. 

It  sprung  up  a  fresh  gale  in-  the  evening  at  S.W.  by  W.,  which, 
being  fair  for  the  Portugal  fleet,  and  the  weather  pleasant  and 
agreeable,  we  heard  the  signal  given  to  unmoor,  and  running  in 

under  the  island  of  Si ,  we  hauled  our  mainsail  and  foresail 

up  in  the  brails,  lowered  the  topsails  upon  the  cap,  and  clewed 
them  up,  that  we  might  lie  as  snug  as  we  could,  expecting  their 
coming  out,  and  the  next  morning  saw  the  whole  fleet  come  out 
accordingly,  but  not  at  all  to  our  satisfaction,  for  they  consisted 
of  twenty-six  sail,  and  most  of  them  ships  of  force,  as  well  as 
burthen,  both  merchantmen  and  men-of-war ;  so,  seeing  there 
was  no  meddling,  we  lay  still  where  we  were  also,  till  the  fleet 
was  out  of  sight,  and  then  stood  off  and  on,  in  hopes  of  meeting 
with  further  purchase. 

It  was  not  long  before  we  saw  a  sail,  and  immediately  gave  her 
chase ;  but  she  proved  an  excellent  sailer,  and,  standing  out  to 
sea,  we  saw  plainly  she  trusted  to  her  heels  —  that  is  to  say,  to 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    199 

her  sails.  However,  as  we  were  a  clean  ship,  we  gained  upon 
her,  though  slowly,  and  had  we  had  a  day  before  us,  we  should 
certainly  have  come  up  with  her ;  but  it  grew  dark  apace,  and 
in  that  case  we  knew  we  should  lose  sight  of  her. 

Our  merry  Quaker,  perceiving  us  to  crowd  still  after  her  in 
the  dark,  wherein  we  could  not  see  which  way  she  went,  came 
very  dryly  to  me.  "Friend  Singleton,"  says  he,  "dost  thee 
know  what  we  are  a-doing  ?  "  Says  I,  "Yes ;  why,  we  are  chasing 
yon  ship,  are  we  not?"  "And  how  dost  thou  know  that?" 
says  he,  very  gravely  still.  "Nay,  that's  true,"  says  I  again; 
"we  cannot  be  sure."  "Yes,  friend,"  says  he,  "I  think  we  may 
be  sure  that  we  are  running  away  from  her,  not  chasing  her.  I 
am  afraid,"  adds  he,  "thou  art  turned  Quaker,  and  hast  resolved 
not  to  use  the  hand  of  power,  or  art  a  coward,  and  art  flying  from 
thy  enemy." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  says  I  (I  think  I  swore  at  him). 
"Whatdo  you  sneer  at  now?  You  have  always  one  dry  rub  or 
another  to  give  us." 

"Nay,"  says  he,  "it  is  plain  enough  the  ship  stood  off  to  sea 
due  east,  on  purpose  to  lose  us,  and  thou  mayest  be  sure  her 
business  does  not  lie  that  way  ;  for  what  should  she  do  at  the 
coast  of  Africa  in  this  latitude,  which  should  be  as  far  south  as 
Congo  or  Angola  ?  But,  as  soon  as  it  is  dark,  that  we  would 
lose  sight  of  her,  she  will  tack  and  stand  away  west  again  for  the 
Brazil  coast  and  for  the  bay,  where  thou  knowest  she  was  going 
before ;  and  are  we  not,  then,  running  away  from  her  ?  I  am 
greatly  in  hopes,  friend,"  says  the  dry,  gibing  creature,  "thou 
wilt  turn  Quaker,  for  I  see  thou  art  not  for  fighting." 

"Very  well,  William,"  says  I ;  "then  I  shall  make  an  excellent 
pirate."  However,  William  was  in  the  right,  and  I  apprehended 
what  he  meant  immediately;  and  Captain  Wilmot,  who  lay 
very  sick  in  his  cabin,  overhearing  us,  understood  him  as  well  as 
I,  and  called  out  to  me  that  WilHam  was  right,  and  it  was  our 
best  way  to  change  our  course,  and  stand  away  for  the  bay, 
where  it  was  ten  to  one  but  we  should  snap  her  in  the  morning. 

Accordingly  we  went  about-ship,  got  our  larboard  tacks  on 
board,  set  the  top-gallant  sails,  and  crowded  for  the  bay  of  All 
Saints,  where  we  came  to  an  anchor  early  in  the  morning,  just 


200  DANIEL   DEFOE 

out  of  gunshot  of  the  forts ;  we  furled  our  sails  with  rope-yarns, 
that  we  might  haul  home  the  sheets  without  going  up  to  loose 
them,  and,  lowering  our  main  and  fore-yards,  looked  just  as  if 
we  had  lain  there  a  good  while. 

In  two  hours  afterwards  we  saw  our  game  standing  in  for  the 
bay  with  all  the  sail  she  could  make,  and  she  came  innocently 
into  our  very  mouths,  for  we  lay  still  till  we  saw  her  almost  within 
gunshot,  when,  our  foremost  gears  being  stretched  fore  and  aft, 
we  first  ran  up  our  yards,  and  then  hauled  home  the  topsail 
sheets,  the  rope-yarns  that  furled  them  giving  way  of  them- 
selves ;  the  sails  were  set  in  a  few  minutes ;  at  the  same  time 
slipping  our  cable,  we  came  upon  her  before  she  could  get  under 
way  upon  the  other  tack.  They  were  so  surprised  that  they  made 
little  or  no  resistance,  but  struck  after  the  first  broadside. 

We  were  considering  what  to  do  with  her,  when  William  came 
to  me.  "Hark  thee,  friend,"  says  he,  "thou  hast  made  a  fine 
piece  of  work  of  it  now,  hast  thou  not,  to  borrow  thy  neighbour's 
ship  here  just  at  thy  neighbour's  door,  and  never  ask  him  leave  ? 
Now,  dost  thou  not  think  there  are  some  men-of-war  in  the  port  ? 
Thou  hast  given  them  the  alarm  sufficiently;  thou  wilt  have 
them  upon  thy  back  before  night,  depend  upon  it,  to  ask  thee 
wherefore  thou  didst  so." 

"Truly,  William,"  said  I,  "for  aught  I  know,  that  may  be 
true  ;  what,  then,  shall  we  do  next  ?  "  Says  he,  "  Thou  hast  but 
two  things  to  do  :  either  to  go  in  and  take  all  the  rest,  or  else  get 
thee  gone  before  they  come  out  and  take  thee ;  for  I  see  they 
are  hoisting  a  topmast  to  yon  great  ship,  in  order  to  put  to  sea 
immediately,  and  they  won't  be  long  before  they  come  to  talk 
with  thee,  and  what  wilt  thou  say  to  them  when  they  ask  thee 
why  thou  borrowedst  their  ship  without  leave  ?" 

As  William  said,  so  it  was.  We  could  see  by  our  glasses  they 
were  all  in  a  hurry,  manning  and  fitting  some  sloops  they  had 
there,  and  a  large  man-of-war,  and  it  was  plain  they  would  soon 
be  with  us.  But  we  were  not  at  a  loss  what  to  do  ;  we  found  the 
ship  we  had  taken  was  laden  with  nothing  considerable  for  our 
purpose,  except  some  cocoa,  some  sugar,  and  twenty  barrels  of 
flour ;  the  rest  of  her  cargo  was  hides ;  so  we  took  out  all  we 
thought  fit  for  our  turn,  and,  among  the  rest,  all  her  ammunition, 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    201 

great  shot,  and  small-amis,  and  turned  her  off.  We  also  took  a 
cable  and  three  anchors  she  had,  which  were  for  our  purpose, 
and  some  of  her  sails.  She  had  enough  left  just  to  carry  her  into 
port,  and  that  was  all. 

Having  done  this,  we  stood  on  upon  the  Brazil  coast,  south- 
ward, till  we  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  river  Janeiro.  But  as  we 
had  two  days  the  wind  blowing  hard  at  S.E.  and  S.S.E.,  we  were 
obliged  to  come  to  an  anchor  under  a  little  island,  and  wait  for  a 
wind.  In  this  time  the  Portuguese  had,  it  seems,  given  notice 
over  land  to  the  governor  there,  that  a  pirate  was  upon  the  coast ; 
so  that,  when  we  came  in  view  of  the  port,  we  saw  two  men-of- 
war  riding  just  without  the  bar,  whereof  one,  we  found,  was 
getting  under  sail  with  all  possible  speed,  having  slipped  her 
cable  on  purpose  to  speak  with  us  ;  the  other  was  not  so  forward, 
but  was  preparing  to  follow.  In  less  than  an  hour  they  stood 
both  fair  after  us,  with  all  the  sail  they  could  make. 

Had  not  the  night  come  on,  William's  words  had  been  made 
good ;  they  would  certainly  have  asked  us  the  question  what  we 
did  there,  for  we  found  the  foremost  ship  gained  upon  us,  espe- 
cially upon  one  tack,  for  we  plied  away  from  them  to  windward  ; 
but  in  the  dark  losing  sight  of  them,  we  resolved  to  change  our 
course  and  stand  away  directly  for  sea,  not  doubting  that  we 
should  lose  them  in  the  night. 

Whether  the  Portuguese  commander  guessed  we  would  do  so 
or  no,  I  know  not ;  but  in  the  morning,  when  the  daylight  ap- 
peared, instead  of  having  lost  him,  we  found  him  in  chase  of  us 
about  a  league  astern ;  only,  to  our  great  good  fortune,  we  could 
see  but  one  of  the  two.  However,  this  one  was  a  great  ship, 
carried  six-and-forty  guns,  and  an  admirable  sailer,  as  appeared 
by  her  outsailing  us ;  for  our  ship  was  an  excellent  sailer  too,  as 
I  have  said  before. 

When  I  found  this,  I  easily  saw  there  was  no  remedy,  but  we 
must  engage ;  and  as  we  knew  we  could  expect  no  quarter  from 
those  scoundrels  the  Portuguese,  a  nation  I  had  an  original 
aversion  to,  I  let  Captain  Wilmot  know  how  it  was.  The  captain, 
sick  as  he  was,  jumped  up  in  the  cabin,  and  would  be  led  out 
upon  the  deck  (for  he  was  very  weak)  to  see  how  it  was.  ''Well," 
says  he,  "we'll  fight  them  !" 


202  DANIEL   DEFOE 

Our  men  were  all  in  good  heart  before,  but  to  see  the  captain 
so  brisk,  who  had  lain  ill  of  a  calenture  ten  or  eleven  days,  gave 
them  double  courage,  and  they  went  all  hands  to  work  to  make 
a  clear  ship  and  be  ready.  William,  the  Quaker,  comes  to  me 
with  a  kind  of  a  smile.  "Friend,"  says  he,  ''what  does  yon 
ship  follow  us  for?"  "Why,"  says  I,  "to  fight  us,  you  may  be 
sure."  "Well,"  says  he,  "and  will  he  come  up  with  us,  dost 
thou  think?"  "Yes,"  said  I,  "you  see  she  will."  "Why,  then, 
friend,"  says  the  dry  wretch,  "why  dost  thou  run  from  her  still, 
when  thou  seest  she  will  overtake  thee  ?  Will  it  be  better  for  us 
to  be  overtaken  farther  off  than  here?"  "Much  as  one  for 
that,"  says  I;  "why,  what  would  you  have  us  do?"  "Do  !" 
says  he  ;  "let  us  not  give  the  poor  man  more  trouble  than  needs 
must ;  let  us  stay  for  him  and  hear  what  he  has  to  say  to  us." 
"He  will  talk  to  us  in  powder  and  ball,"  said  I.  "Very  well, 
then,"  says  he,  "if  that  be  his  country  language,  we  must  talk  to 
him  in  the  same,  must  we  not  ?  or  else  how  shall  he  understand 
us?"  "Very  well,  William,"  says  I,  "we  understand  you." 
And  the  captain,  as  ill  as  he  was,  called  to  me,  "William's  right 
again,"  says  he;  "as  good  here  as  a  league  farther."  So  he 
gives  a  word  of  command,  "Haul  up  the  main-sail ;  we'll  shorten 
sail  for  him." 

Accordingly  we  shortened  sail,  and  as  we  expected  her  upon 
our  lee-side,  we  being  then  upon  our  starboard  tack,  brought 
eighteen  of  our  guns  to  the  larboard  side,  resolving  to  give  him  a 
broadside  that  should  wami  him.  It  was  about  half-an-hour 
before  he  came  up  with  us,  all  which  time  we  luffed  up,  that  we 
might  keep  the  wind  of  him,  by  which  he  was  obliged  to  run  up 
under  our  lee,  as  we  designed  him  ;  when  we  got  him  upon  our 
quarter,  we  edged  down,  and  received  the  fire  of  five  or  six  of  his 
guns.  By  this  time  you  may  be  sure  all  our  hands  were  at  their 
fiuarters,  so  we  clapped  our  helm  hard  a-weather,  let  go  the  lee- 
braces  of  the  maintop  sail,  and  laid  it  a-back,  and  so  our  ship  fell 
athwart  the  Portuguese  ship's  hawse ;  then  we  immediately 
I)ourcd  in  our  broadside,  raking  them  fore  and  aft,  and  killed 
them  a  great  many  men. 

The  Portuguese,  we  could  see,  were  in  the  utmost  confusion  ; 
and  not  being  aware  of  our  design,  tiieir  ship  having  fresh  way. 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    203 

ran  their  bowsprit  into  the  fore  part  of  our  main  shrouds,  as 
that  they  could  not  easily  get  clear  of  us,  and  so  we  lay  locked 
after  that  manner.  The  enemy  could  not  bring  above  five  or 
six  guns,  besides  their  small-arms,  to  bear  upon  us,  while  we 
played  our  whole  broadside  upon  him. 

In  the  middle  of  the  heat  of  this  fight,  as  I  was  very  busy 
upon  the  quarter-deck,  the  captain  calls  to  me,  for  he  never 
stirred  from  us,  "What  the  devil  is  friend  WilHam  a-doing 
yonder  ?  "  says  the  captain  ;  "has  he  any  business  upon  deck  ?  " 
I  stepped  forward,  and  there  was  friend  Wilham,  with  two  or 
three  stout  fellows,  lashing  the  ship's  bowsprit  fast  to  our  main- 
mast, for  fear  they  should  get  away  from  us  ;  and  every  now  and 
then  he  pulled  a  bottle  out  of  his  pocket,  and  gave  the  men  a 
dram  to  encourage  them.  The  shot  flew  about  his  ears  as  thick  as 
may  be  supposed  in  such  an  action,  where  the  Portuguese,  to  give 
them  their  due,  fought  very  briskly,  believing  at  first  they  were 
sure  of  their  game,  and  trusting  to  their  superiority ;  but  there 
was  Wilham,  as  composed,  and  in  as  perfect  tranquiUity  as  to 
danger,  as  if  he  had  been  over  a  bowl  of  punch,  only  very  busy 
securing  the  matter,  that  a  ship  of  forty-six  guns  should  not  run 
away  from  a  ship  of  eight-and-twenty. 

This  work  was  too  hot  to  hold  long  ;  our  men  behaved  bravely  : 
our  gunner,  a  gallant  man,  shouted  below,  pouring  in  his  shot 
at  such  a  rate,  that  the  Portuguese  began  to  slacken  their  fire ; 
we  had  dismounted  several  of  their  guns  by  firing  in  at  their  fore- 
castle, and  raking  them,  as  I  said,  fore  and  aft.  Presently  comes 
William^up  to  me.  "Friend,"  says  he,  very  calmly,  "what  dost 
thou  mean  ?  Why  dost  thou  not  visit  thy  neighbour  in  the  ship, 
the  door  being  open  for  thee  ?  "  I  understood  him  immediately, 
for  our  guns  had  so  torn  their  hull,  that  we  had  beat  two  port- 
holes into  one,  and  the  bulk-head  of  their  steerage  was  spht 
to  pieces,  so  that  they  could  not  retire  to  their  close  quarters ; 
so  I  gave  the  word  immediately  to  board  them.  Our  second 
lieutenant,  with  about  thirty  men,  entered  in  an  instant  over  the 
forecastle,  followed  by  some  more  with  the  boatswain,  and 
cutting  in  pieces  about  twenty-five  men  that  they  found  upon  the 
deck,  and  then  throwing  some  grenadoes  into  the  steerage,  they 
entered  there  also ;    upon  which  the  Portuguese  cried  quarter 


204  DANIEL   DEFOE 

presently,  and  we  mastered  the  ship,  contrary  indeed  to  our  own 
expectation;  for  we  would  have  compounded  with  them  if 
they  would  have  sheered  ofi :  but  laying  them  athwart  the  hawse 
at  first,  and  following  our  fire  furiously,  without  giving  them 
any  time  to  get  clear  of  us  and  work  their  ship ;  by  this  means, 
though  they  had  six-and-forty  guns,  they  were  not  able  to  fight 
above  five  or  six,  as  I  said  above,  for  we  beat  them  immediately 
from  their  guns  in  the  forecastle,  and  killed  them  abundance  of 
men  between  decks,  so  that  when  we  entered  they  had  hardly 
found  men  enough  to  fight  us  hand  to  hand  upon  their  deck. 

The  surprise  of  joy  to  hear  the  Portuguese  cry  quarter,  and 
see  their  ancient  struck,  was  so  great  to  our  captain,  who,  as  I 
have  said,  was  reduced  very  weak  with  a  high  fever,  that  it  gave 
him  new  life.  Nature  conquered  the  distemper,  and  the  fever 
abated  that  very  night ;  so  that  in  two  or  three  days  he  was 
sensibly  better,  his  strength  began  to  come,  and  he  was  able  to 
give  his  orders  effectually  in  everything  that  was  material,  and 
in  about  ten  days  was  entirely  well  and  about  the  ship. 

In  the  meantime  I  took  possession  of  the  Portuguese  man-of- 
war  ;  and  Captain  Wilmot  made  me,  or  rather  I  made  myself, 
captain  of  her  for  the  present.  About  thirty  of  their  seamen 
took  service  with  us,  some  of  which  were  French,  some  Genoese ; 
and  we  set  the  rest  on  shore  the  next  day  on  a  little  island  on  the 
coast  of  Brazil,  except  some  wounded  men,  who  were  not  in  a 
condition  to  be  removed,  and  whom  we  were  bound  to  keep  on 
board  ;  but  we  had  an  occasion  afterwards  to  dispose  of  them  at 
the  Cape,  where,  at  their  own  request,  we  set  them  on  ^ore. 

Captain  Wilmot,  as  soon  as  the  ship  was  taken,  and  the  prison- 
ers stowed,  was  for  standing  in  for  the  river  Janeiro  again,  not 
doubting  but  we  should  meet  with  the  other  man-of-war,  who, 
not  having  been  able  to  find  us,  and  having  lost  the  company  of 
her  comrade,  would  certainly  be  returned,  and  might  be  surprised 
by  the  ship  we  had  taken,  if  we  carried  Portuguese  colours; 
and  our  men  were  all  for  it. 

But  our  friend  William  gave  us  better  counsel,  for  he  came  to 
me,  "Friend,"  says  he,  "I  understand  the  captain  is  for  sailing 
back  to  the  Rio  Janeiro,  in  hopes  to  meet  with  the  other  ship 
that  was  in  chase  of  thee  yesterday.     Is  it  true,  dost  thou  intend 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    205 

it?"  "Why,  yes,"  says  I,  "William,  pray  why  not?"  "Nay," 
says  he,  "thou  mayest  do  so  if  thou  wilt."  "Well,  I  know  that 
too,  WilHam,"  said  I,  "but  the  captain  is  a  man  will  be  ruled  by 
reason;  what  have  you  to  say  to  it?"  "Why,"  says  William 
gravely,  "I  only  ask  what  is  thy  business,  and  the  business  of 
all  the  people  thou  hast  with  thee?  Is  it  not  to  get  money?" 
"Yes,  William,  it  is  so,  in  our  honest  way."  "And  wouldest 
thou,"  says  he,  "rather  have  money  without  fighting,  or  fighting 
without  money  ?  I  mean  which  wouldest  thou  have  by  choice,  sup- 
pose it  to  be  left  to  thee  ?  "  "  O  William,"  says  I,  "  the  first  of  the 
two,  to  be  sure."  "Why,  then,"  says  he,  "what  great  gain  hast 
thou  made  of  the  prize  thou  hast  taken  now,  though  it  has  cost 
the  lives  of  thirteen  of  thy  men,  besides  some  hurt  ?  It  is  true 
thou  hast  got  the  ship  and  some  prisoners ;  but  thou  wouldest 
have  had  twice  the  booty  in  a  merchant-ship,  with  not  one  quarter 
of  the  fighting ;  and  how  dost  thou  know  either  what  force  or 
what  number  of  men  may  be  in  the  other  ship,  and  what  loss 
thou  mayest  suffer,  and  what  gain  it  shall  be  to  thee  if  thou  take 
her?  I  think,  indeed,  thou  mayest  much  better  let  her  alone." 
"Why,  William,  it  is  true,"  said  I,  "and  I'll  go  tell  the  captain 
what  your  opinion  is,  and  bring  you  word  what  he  says."  Ac- 
cordingly in  I  went  to  the  captain  and  told  him  William's  reasons  ; 
and  the  captain  was  of  his  mind,  that  our  business  was  indeed 
fighting  when  we  could  not  help  it,  but  that  our  main  affair  was 
money,  and  that  with  as  few  blows  as  we  could.  So  that  ad- 
venture was  laid  aside,  and  we  stood  along  shore  again  south 
for  the  river  De  la  Plata,  expecting  some  purchase  thereabouts ; 
especially  we  had  our  eyes  upon  some  of  the  Spanish  ships  from 
Buenos  Ayres,  which  are  generally  very  rich  in  silver,  and  one 
such  prize  would  have  done  our  business.     We  plied  about  here, 

in  the  latitude  of south,  for  near  a  month,  and  nothing 

offered ;  and  here  we  began  to  consult  what  we  should  do  next, 
for  we  had  come  to  no  resolution  yet.  Indeed,  my  design  was 
always  for  the  Cape  de  Bona  Speranza,  and  so  to  the  East 
Indies.  I  had  heard  some  flaming  stories  of  Captain  Avery, 
and  the  fine  things  he  had  done  in  the  Indies,  which  were  doubled 
and  doubled,  even  ten  thousand  fold ;  and  from  taking  a  great 
prize  in  the  Bay  of  Bengal,  where  he  took  a  lady,  said  to  be  the 


2o6  DANIEL  DEFOE 

Great  Mogul's  daughter,  with  a  great  quantity  of  jewels  about 
her,  we  had  a  story  told  us,  that  he  took  a  Mogul  ship,  so  the 
fooHsh  sailors  called  it,  laden  with  diamonds. 

I  would  fain  have  had  friend  Wilham's  advice  whither  we 
should  go,  but  he  always  put  it  off  with  some  quaking  quibble 
or  other.  In  short,  he  did  not  care  for  directing  us  neither ; 
whether  he  made  a  piece  of  conscience  of  it,  or  whether  he  did 
not  care  to  venture  having  it  come  against  him  afterwards  or  no, 
this  I  know  not ;  but  we  concluded  at  last  without  him. 

We  were,  however,  pretty  long  in  resolving,  and  hankered 
about  the  Rio  de  la  Plata  a  long  time.  At  last  we  spied  a  sail 
to  windward,  and  it  was  such  a  sail  as  I  believe  had  not  been  seen 
in  that  part  of  the  world  a  great  while.  It  wanted  not  that  we 
should  give  it  chase,  for  it  stood  directly  towards  us,  as  well  as 
they  that  steered  could  make  it ;  and  even  that  was  more  acci- 
dent of  weather  than  anything  else,  for  if  the  wind  had  chopped 
about  anywhere  they  must  have  gone  with  it.  I  leave  any  man 
that  is  a  sailor,  or  understands  anything  of  a  ship,  to  judge  what 
a  figure  this  ship  made  when  we  first  saw  her,  and  what  we  could 
imagine  was  the  matter  with  her.  Her  maintop-mast  was  come 
by  the  board  about  six  foot  above  the  cap,  and  fell  forward,  the 
head  of  the  topgallant-mast  hanging  in  the  fore-shrouds  by  the 
stay ;  at  the  same  time  the  parrel  of  the  mizzen-topsail-yard  by 
some  accident  giving  way,  the  mizzen-topsail-braces  (the  standing 
part  of  which  being  fast  to  the  main-topsail  shrouds)  brought 
the  mizzen- topsail,  yard  and  all,  down  with  it,  which  spread  over 
part  of  the  quarter-deck  like  an  awning ;  the  fore-topsail  was 
hoisted  up  two-thirds  of  the  mast,  but  the  sheets  were  flown ; 
the  fore-yard  was  lowered  down  upon  the  forecastle,  the  sail 
loose,  and  part  of  it  hanging  overboard.  In  this  manner  she 
came  down  upon  us  with  the  wind  quartering.  In  a  word,  the 
figure  the  whole  ship  made  was  the  most  confounding  to  men 
that  understood  the  sea  that  ever  was  seen.  She  had  no  boat, 
neither  had  she  any  colours  out. 

When  we  came  near  to  her,  we  fired  a  gun  to  bring  her  to. 
She  took  no  notice  of  it,  nor  of  us,  but  came  on  just  as  she  did 
before.  We  fired  again,  but  it  was  all  one.  At  length  we  came 
within  pistol-shot  of  one  another,  but  nobody  answered  nor 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    207 

appeared ;  so  we  began  to  think  that  it  was  a  ship  gone  ashore 
somewhere  in  distress,  and  the  men  having  forsaken  her,  the 
high  tide  had  floated  her  off  to  sea.  Coming  nearer  to  her,  we 
ran  up  alongside  of  her  so  close  that  we  could  hear  a  noise  within 
her,  and  see  the  motion  of  several  people  through  her  ports. 

Upon  this  we  manned  out  two  boats  full  of  men,  and  very  well 
armed,  and  ordered  them  to  board  her  at  the  same  minute,  as 
near  as  they  could,  and  to  enter  one  at  her  fore-chains  on 
the  one  side,  and  the  other  amidships  on  the  other  side.  As 
soon  as  they  came  to  the  ship's  side,  a  surprising  multitude 
of  black  sailors,  such  as  they  were,  appeared  upon  deck,  and, 
in  short,  terrified  our  men  so  much  that  the  boat  which  was 
to  enter  her  men  in  the  waist  stood  off  again,  and  durst  not 
board  her ;  and  the  men  that  entered  out  of  the  other  boat, 
finding  the  first  boat,  as  they  thought,  beaten  off,  and  see- 
ing the  ship  full  of  men,  jumped  all  back  again  into  their  boat, 
and  put  off,  not  knowing  what  the  matter  was.  Upon  this  we 
prepared  to  pour  in  a  broadside  upon  her ;  but  our  friend  WiUiam 
set  us  to  rights  again  here ;  for  it  seems  he  guessed  how  it  was 
sooner  than  we  did,  and  coming  up  to  me  (for  it  was  our  ship 
that  came  up  with  her),  "Friend,"  says  he,  "I  am  of  opinion 
that  thou  art  wrong  in  this  matter,  and  thy  men  have  been 
wrong  also  in  their  conduct.  I'll  tell  thee  how  thou  shalt  take 
this  ship,  without  making  use  of  those  things  called  guns." 
"How  can  that  be,  Wilham?"  said  I.  "Why,"  said  he,  "thou 
mayest  take  her  with  thy  helm ;  thou  seest  they  keep  no  steerage, 
and  thou  seest  the  condition  they  are  in ;  board  her  with  thy 
ship  upon  her  lee  quarter,  and  so  enter  her  from  the  ship.  I  am 
persuaded  thou  wilt  take  her  without  fighting,  for  there  is  some 
mischief  has  befallen  the  ship,  which  we  know  nothing  of." 

In  a  word,  it  being  a  smooth  sea,  and  httle  wind,  I  took  his 
advice,  and  laid  her  aboard.  Immediately  our  men  entered  the 
ship,  where  we  found  a  large  ship,  with  upwards  of  600  negroes, 
men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  and  not  one  Christian  or  white 
man  on  board. 

I  was  struck  with  horror  at  the  sight;  for  immediately  I 
concluded,  as  was  partly  the  case,  that  these  black  devils  had  got 
loose,  had  murdered  all  the  white  men,  and  thrown  them  into 


2o8  DANIEL   DEFOE 

the  sea ;  and  I  had  no  sooner  told  my  mind  to  the  men,  but  the 
thought  so  enraged  them  that  I  had  much  ado  to  keep  my  men 
from  cutting  them  all  in  pieces.  But  Wilham,  with  many  per- 
suasions, prevailed  upon  them,  by  telUng  them  that  it  was  nothing 
but  what,  if  they  were  in  the  negroes'  condition,  they  would  do  if 
they  could  ;  and  that  the  negroes  had  really  the  highest  injustice 
done  them,  to  be  sold  for  slaves  without  their  consent ;  and  that 
the  law  of  nature  dictated  it  to  them ;  that  they  ought  not  to 
kill  them,  and  that  it  would  be  wilful  murder  to  do  it. 

This  prevailed  with  them,  and  cooled  their  first  heat ;  so  they 
only  knocked  down  twenty  or  thirty  of  them,  and  the  rest  ran  all 
down  between  decks  to  their  first  places,  believing,  as  we  fancied, 
that  we  were  their  first  masters  come  again. 

It  was  a  most  unaccountable  difficulty  we  had  next ;  for  we 
could  not  make  them  understand  one  word  we  said,  nor  could  we 
understand  one  word  ourselves  that  they  said.  We  endeavoured 
by  signs  to  ask  them  whence  they  came ;  but  they  could  make 
nothing  of  it.  We  pointed  to  the  great  cabin,  to  the  round-house, 
to  the  cook-room,  then  to  our  faces,  to  ask  if  they  had  no  white 
men  on  board,  and  where  they  were  gone ;  but  they  could  not 
understand  what  we  meant.  On  the  other  hand,  they  pointed 
to  our  boat  and  to  their  ship,  asking  questions  as  well  as  they 
could,  and  said  a  thousand  things,  and  expressed  themselves 
with  great  earnestness ;  but  we  could  not  understand  a  word 
of  it  all,  or  know  what  they  meant  by  any  of  their  signs. 

We  knew  very  well  they  must  have  been  taken  on  board  the 
ship  as  slaves,  and  that  it  must  be  by  some  European  people  too. 
We  could  easily  see  that  the  ship  was  a  Dutch-built  ship,  but  very 
much  altered,  having  been  built  upon,  and,  as  we  supposed,  in 
France ;  for  we  found  two  or  three  French  books  on  board, 
and  afterwards  we  found  clothes,  linen,  lace,  some  old  shoes, 
and  several  other  things.  We  found  among  the  provisions  some 
barrels  of  Irish  beef,  some  Newfoundland  fish,  and  several  other 
evidences  that  there  had  been  Christians  on  board,  but  saw  no 
remains  of  them.  We  found  not  a  sword,  gun,  pistol,  or  weapon 
of  any  kind,  except  some  cutlasses ;  and  the  negroes  had  hid 
them  below  where  they  lay.  We  asked  them  what  was  become  of 
all  the  small-arms,  pointing  to  our  own  and  to  the  places  where 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    209 

those  belonging  to  the  ship  had  hung.  One  of  the  negroes  under- 
stood me  presently,  and  beckoned  to  me  to  come  upon  the  deck, 
where,  taking  my  fuzee,  which  I  never  let  go  out  of  my  hand  for 
some  time  after  we  had  mastered  the  ship  —  I  say,  offering  to 
take  hold  of  it,  he  made  the  proper  motion  of  throwing  it  into 
the  sea  ;  by  which  I  understood,  as  I  did  afterwards,  that  they  had 
thrown  all  the  small-arms,  powder,  shot,  swords,  &c.,  into  the 
sea,  believing,  as  I  supposed,  those  things  would  kill  them, 
though  the  men  were  gone. 

After  we  understood  this  we  made  no  question  but  that  the 
ship's  crew,  having  been  surprised  by  these  desperate  rogues, 
had  gone  the  same  way,  and  had  been  thrown  overboard  also. 
We  looked  all  over  the  ship  to  see  if  we  could  find  any  blood, 
and  we  thought  we  did  perceive  some  in  several  places ;  but  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  melting  the  pitch  and  tar  upon  the  decks,  made 
it  impossible  for  us  to  discern  it  exactly,  except  in  the  round- 
house, where  we  plainly  saw  that  there  had  been  much  blood. 
We  found  the  scuttle  open,  by  which  we  supposed  that  the  captain 
and  those  that  were  with  him  had  made  their  retreat  into  the 
great  cabin,  or  those  in  the  cabin  had  made  their  escape  up  into 
the  round-house. 

But  that  which  confirmed  us  most  of  all  in  what  had  hap- 
pened was  that,  upon  further  inquiry,  we  found  that  there  were 
seven  or  eight  of  the  negroes  very  much  wounded,  two  or  three 
of  them  with  shot,  whereof  one  had  his  leg  broken  and  lay  in  a 
miserable  condition,  the  flesh  being  mortified,  and,  as  our  friend 
William  said,  in  two  days  more  he  would  have  died.  William 
was  a  most  dexterous  surgeon,  and  he  showed  it  in  this  cure; 
for  though  all  the  surgeons  we  had  on  board  both  our  ships 
(and  we  had  no  less  than  five  that  called  themselves  bred  sur- 
geons, besides  two  or  three  who  were  pretenders  or  assistants)  — 
though  all  these  gave  their  opinions  that  the  negro's  leg  must  be 
cut  off,  and  that  his  Hfe  could  not  be  saved  without  it ;  that  the 
mortification  had  touched  the  marrow  in  the  bone,  that  the 
tendons  were  mortified,  and  that  he  could  never  have  the  use  of 
his  leg  if  it  should  be  cured,  William  said  nothing  in  general, 
but  that  his  opinion  was  otherwise,  and  that  he  desired  the  wound 
might  be  searched,  and  that  he  would  then  tell  them  further. 


2IO  DANIEL   DEFOE 

Accordingly  he  went  to  work  with  the  leg ;  and,  as  he  desired 
that  he  might  have  some  of  the  surgeons  to  assist  him,  we  ap- 
pointed him  two  of  the  ablest  of  them  to  help,  and  all  of  them  to 
look  on,  if  they  thought  fit. 

William  went  to  work  his  own  way,  and  some  of  them  pre- 
tended to  find  fault  at  first.  However,  he  proceeded  and  searched 
every  part  of  the  leg  where  he  suspected  the  mortification  had 
touched  it ;  in  a  word,  he  cut  off  a  great  deal  of  mortified  flesh, 
in  all  which  the  poor  fellow  felt  no  pain.  William  proceeded 
till  he  brought  the  vessels  which  he  had  cut  to  bleed,  and  the 
man  to  cry  out ;  then  he  reduced  the  splinters  of  the  bone,  and, 
calling  for  help,  set  it,  as  we  call  it,  and  bound  it  up,  and  laid  the 
man  to  rest,  who  found  himself  much  easier  than  before. 

At  the  first  opening  the  surgeons  began  to  triumph ;  the  morti- 
fication seemed  to  spread,  and  a  long  red  streak  of  blood  appeared 
from  the  wound  upwards  to  the  middle  of  the  man's  thigh,  and  the 
surgeons  told  me  the  man  would  die  in  a  few  hours.  I  went  to 
look  at  it,  and  found  William  himself  under  some  surprise ; 
but  when  I  asked  him  how  long  he  thought  the  poor  fellow  could 
live,  he  looked  gravely  at  me,  and  said,  "As  long  as  thou  canst; 
I  am  not  at  all  apprehensive  of  his  life,"  said  he,  "but  I  would 
cure  him,  if  I  could,  without  making  a  cripple  of  him."  I  found 
he  was  not  just  then  upon  the  operation  as  to  his  leg,  but  was  mix- 
ing up  something  to  give  the  poor  creature,  to  repel,  as  I  thought, 
the  spreading  contagion,  and  to  abate  or  prevent  any  feverish 
temper  that  might  happen  in  the  blood ;  after  which  he  went  to 
work  again,  and  opened  the  leg  in  two  places  above  the  wound, 
cutting  out  a  great  deal  of  mortified  flesh,  which  it  seemed  was 
occasioned  by  the  bandage,  which  had  pressed  the  parts  too 
much ;  and  withal,  the  blood  being  at  the  time  in  a  more  than 
common  disposition  to  mortify,  might  assist  to  spread  it. 

Well,  our  friend  William  conquered  all  this,  cleared  the  spread- 
ing mortification,  and  the  red  streak  went  off  again,  the  flesh 
began  to  heal,  and  matter  to  run ;  and  in  a  few  days  the  man's 
spirits  began  to  recover,  his  pulse  beat  regular,  he  had  no  fever, 
and  gathered  strength  daily;  and,  in  a  word,  he  was  a  perfect 
sound  man  in  about  ten  weeks,  and  we  kept  him  amongst  us, 
and  made  him  an  able  seaman.     But  to  return  to  the  ship :  we 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    211 

never  could  come  at  a  certain  information  about  it,  till  some  of 
the  negroes  which  we  kept  on  Ijoard,  and  whom  we  taught  to 
speak  English,  gave  the  account  of  it  afterwards,  and  this  maimed 
man  in  particular. 

We  inquired,  by  all  the  signs  and  motions  we  could  imagine, 
what  was  become  of  the  people,  and  yet  we  could  get  nothing  from 
them.  Our  lieutenant  was  for  torturing  some  of  them  to  make 
them  confess,  but  William  opposed  that  vehemently ;  and  when 
he  heard  it  was  under  consideration  he  came  tome.  "Friend," 
says  he,  "I  make  a  request  to  thee  not  to  put  any  of  these  poor 
wretches  to  torment."  "Why,  William,"  said  I,  "why  not? 
You  see  they  will  not  give  any  account  of  what  is  become  of  the 
white  men."  "Nay,"  says  William,  "do  not  say  so;  I  suppose 
they  have  given  thee  a  full  account  of  every  particular  of  it." 
"How  so  ? "  says  I ;  "pray  what  are  we  the  wiser  for  all  their  jab- 
bering?" "Nay,"  says  William,  "that  may  be  thy  fault,  for 
aught  I  know ;  thou  wilt  not  punish  the  poor  men  because  they 
cannot  speak  English ;  and  perhaps  they  never  heard  a  word  of 
English  before.  Now,  I  may  very  well  suppose  that  they  have 
given  thee  a  large  account  of  everything  ;  for  thou  seest  with  what 
earnestness,  and  how  long,  some  of  them  have  talked  to  thee ; 
and  if  thou  canst  not  understand  their  language,  nor  they  thine, 
how  can  they  help  that  ?  At  the  best,  thou  dost  but  suppose 
that  they  have  not  told  thee  the  whole  truth  of  the  story;  and, 
on  the  contrary,  I  suppose  they  have  ;  and  how  wilt  thou  decide 
the  question,  whether  thou  art  right  or  whether  I  am  right? 
Besides,  what  can  they  say  to  thee  when  thou  askest  them  a 
question  upon  the  torture,  and  at  the  same  time  they  do  not 
understand  the  question,  and  thou  dost  not  know  whether  they 
say  ay  or  no  ?" 

It  is  no  compliment  to  my  moderation  to  say  I  was  con- 
vinced by  these  reasons ;  and  yet  we  had  all  much  ado  to  keep 
our  second  lieutenant  from  murdering  some  of  them,  to  make 
them  tell.  What  if  they  had  told  ?  He  did  not  understand  one 
word  of  it ;  but  he  would  not  be  persuaded  but  that  the  negroes 
must  needs  understand  him  when  he  asked  them  whether  the 
ship  had  any  boat  or  no,  like  ours,  and  what  was  become  of  it. 

But  there  was  no  remedy  but  to  wait  till  we  made  these  people 


212  DANIEL   DEFOE 

understand  English,  and  to  adjourn  the  story  till  that  time. 
The  case  was  thus :  where  they  were  taken  on  board  the  ship, 
that  we  could  never  understand,  because  they  never  knew  the 
English  names  which  we  give  to  those  coasts,  or  what  nation 
they  were  who  belonged  to  the  ship,  because  they  knew  not  one 
tongue  from  another ;  but  thus  far  the  negro  I  examined,  who 
was  the  same  whose  leg  WilHam  had  cured,  told  us,  that  they 
did  not  speak  the  same  language  as  we  spoke,  nor  the  same  our 
Portuguese  spoke;  so  that  in  all  probability  they  must  be 
French  or  Dutch. 

Then  he  told  us  that  the  white  men  used  them  barbarously ; 
that  they  beat  them  unmercifully ;  that  one  of  the  negro  men  had 
a  wife  and  two  negro  children,  one  a  daughter,  about  sixteen 
years  old ;  that  a  white  man  abused  the  negro  man's  wife,  and 
afterward  his  daughter,  which,  as  he  said,  made  all  the  negro 
men  mad ;  and  that  the  woman's  husband  was  in  a  great  rage ; 
at  which  the  white  man  was  so  provoked  that  he  threatened  to 
kill  him  ;  but,  in  the  night,  the  negro  man,  being  loose,  got  a  great 
club,  by  which  he  made  us  understand  he  meant  a  handspike, 
and  that  when  the  same  Frenchman  (if  it  was  a  Frenchman) 
came  among  them  again,  he  began  again  to  abuse  the  negro 
man's  wife,  at  which  the  negro,  taking  up  the  handspike,  knocked 
his  brains  out  at  one  blow ;  and  then  taking  the  key  from  him 
with  which  he  usually  unlocked  the  handcuffs  which  the  negroes 
were  fettered  with,  he  set  about  a  hundred  of  them  at  liberty, 
who,  getting  up  upon  the  deck  by  the  same  scuttle  that  the  white 
men  came  down,  and  taking  the  man's  cutlass  who  was  killed, 
and  laying  hold  of  what  came  next  them,  they  fell  upon  the  men 
that  were  upon  the  deck,  and  killed  them  all,  and  afterwards 
those  they  found  upon  the  forecastle ;  that  the  captain  and  his 
other  men,  who  were  in  the  cabin  and  the  round-house,  defended 
themselves  with  great  courage,  and  shot  out  at  the  loopholes 
at  them,  by  which  he  and  several  other  men  were  wounded, 
and  some  killed ;  but  that  they  broke  into  the  round-house 
after  a  long  dispute,  where  they  killed  two  of  the  white  men, 
but  owned  that  the  two  white  men  killed  eleven  of  their  men 
before  they  could  break  in ;  and  then  the  rest,  having  got  down 
the  scuttle  into  the  great  cabin,  wounded  three  more  of  them. 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    213 

That,  after  this,  the  gunner  of  the  ship  having  secured  himself 
in  the  gun-room,  one  of  his  men  hauled  up  the  long-boat  close 
under  the  stern,  and  putting  into  her  all  the  arms  and  ammunition 
they  could  come  at,  got  all  into  the  boat,  and  afterwards  took 
in  the  captain,  and  those  that  were  with  him,  out  of  the  great 
cabin.  When  they  were  all  thus  embarked,  they  resolved  to 
lay  the  ship  aboard  again,  and  try  to  recover  it.  That  they 
boarded  the  ship  in  a  desperate  manner,  and  killed  at  first  all 
that  stood  in  their  way ;  but  the  negroes  being  by  this  tune  all 
loose,  and  having  gotten  some  arms,  though  they  understood 
nothing  of  powder  and  bullet,  or  guns,  yet  the  men  could 
never  master  them.  However,  they  lay  under  the  ship's  bow, 
and  got  out  all  the  men  they  had  left  in  the  cook-room,  who  had 
maintained  themselves  there,  notwithstanding  all  the  negroes 
could  do,  and  with  their  small-arms  killed  between  thirty  and 
forty  of  the  negroes,  but  were  at  last  forced  to  leave  them. 

They  could  give  me  no  account  whereabouts  this  was,  whether 
near  the  coast  of  Africa,  or  far  off,  or  how  long  it  was  before  the 
ship  fell  into  our  hands ;  only,  in  general,  it  was  a  great  while 
ago,  as  they  called  it ;  and,  by  all  we  could  learn,  it  was  within 
two  or  three  days-after  they  had  set  sail  from  the  coast.  They 
told  us  that  they  had  killed  about  thirty  of  the  white  men, 
having  knocked  them  on  the  head  with  crows  and  handspikes, 
and  such  things  as  they  could  get ;  and  one  strong  negro  killed 
three  of  them  with  an  iron  crow,  after  he  was  shot  twice  through 
the  body ;  and  that  he  was  afterwards  shot  through  the  head  by 
the  captain  himself  at  the  door  of  the  round-house,  which  he 
had  spHt  open  with  the  crow ;  and  this  we  supposed  was  the 
occasion  of  the  great  quantity  of  blood  which  we  saw  at  the 
round-house  door. 

The  same  negro  told  us  that  they  threw  all  the  powder  and  shot 
they  could  find  into  the  sea,  and  they  would  have  thrown  the 
great  guns  into  the  sea  if  they  could  have  Kfted  them.  Being 
asked  how  they  came  to  have  their  sails  in  such  a  condition, 
his  answer  was,  "They  no  understand;  they  no  know  what  the 
sails  do;"  that  was,  they  did  not  so  much  as  know  that  it  was 
the  sails  that  made  the  ship  go,  or  understand  what  they  meant, 
or  what  to  do  with  them.     When  we  asked  him  whither  they 


214  DANIEL   DEFOE 

were  going,  he  said  they  did  not  know,  but  believed  they  should 
go  home  to  their  own  country  again.  I  asked  him,  in  particular, 
what  he  thought  we  were  when  we  first  came  up  with  them  ?  He 
said  they  were  terribly  frighted,  believing  we  were  the  same 
white  men  that  had  gone  away  in  their  boats,  and  were  come 
again  in  a  great  ship,  with  the  two  boats  with  them,  and  ex- 
pected they  would  kill  them  all. 

This  was  the  account  we  got  out  of  them,  after  we  had  taught 
them  to  speak  English,  and  to  understand  the  names  and  use 
of  the  things  belonging  to  the  ship  which  they  had  occasion  to 
speak  of ;  and  we  observed  that  the  fellows  were  too  innocent  to 
dissemble  in  their  relation,  and  that  they  all  agreed  in  the  partic- 
ulars, and  were  always  in  the  same  story,  which  confirmed  very 
much  the  truth  of  what  they  said. 

Having  taken  this  ship,  our  next  difficulty  was,  what  to  do  with 
the  negroes.  The  Portuguese  in  the  Brazils  would  have  bought 
them  all  of  us,  and  been  glad  of  the  purchase,  if  we  had  not 
showed  ourselves  enemies  there,  and  been  known  for  pirates ; 
but,  as  it  was,  we  durst  not  go  ashore  anywhere  thereabouts,  or 
treat  with  any  of  the  planters,  because  we  should  raise  the  whole 
country  upon  us ;  and,  if  there  were  any  such  things  as  men-of- 
war  in  any  of  their  ports,  we  should  be  as  sure  to  be  attacked 
by  them,  and  by  all  the  force  they  had  by  land  or  sea. 

Nor  could  we  think  of  any  better  success  if  we  went  northward 
to  our  own  plantations.  One  while  we  determined  to  carry 
them  all  away  to  Buenos  Ay  res,  and  sell  them  there  to  the  Span- 
iards ;  but  they  were  really  too  many  for  them  to  make  use  of ; 
and  to  carry  them  round  to  the  South  Seas,  which  was  the  only 
remedy  that  was  left,  was  so  far  that  we  should  be  no  way  able 
to  subsist  them  for  so  long  a  voyage. 

At  last,  our  old,  never-faihng  friend,  William,  helped  us  out 
again,  as  he  had  often  done  at  a  dead  lift.  His  proposal  was  this, 
that  he  should  go  as  master  of  the  ship,  and  about  twenty  men, 
such  as  wc  could  best  trust,  and  attempt  to  trade  privately, 
upon  the  coast  of  Brazil,  with  the  planters,  not  at  the  principal 
ports,  because  that  would  not  be  admitted. 

We  all  agreed  to  this,  and  appointed  to  go  away  ourselves 
towards  the  Rio  de  la  Plata,  where  we  had  thought  of  going  be- 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    215 

fore,  and  to  wait  for  him,  not  there,  but  at  Port  St  Pedro,  as 
the  Spaniards  call  it,  lying  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  which  they 
call  Rio  Grande,  and  where  the  Spaniards  had  a  small  fort  and  a 
few  people,  but  we  believe  there  was  nobody  in  it. 

Here  we  took  up  our  station,  cruising  off  and  on,  to  see  if  we 
could  meet  any  ships  going  to  or  coming  from  the  Buenos  Ay  res 
or  the  Rio  de  la  Plata ;  but  we  met  with  nothing  worth  notice. 
However,  we  employed  ourselves  in  things  necessary  for  our  going 
off  to  sea ;  for  we  filled  all  our  water-casks,  and  got  some  fish  for 
our  present  use,  to  spare  as  much  as  possible  our  ship's  stores. 

Wilham,  in  the  meantime,  went  away  to  the  north,  and  made 
the  land  about  the  Cape  de  St  Thomas ;  and  betwixt  that  and 
the  isles  De  Tuberon  he  found  means  to  trade  with  the  planters 
for  all  his  negroes,  as  well  the  women  as  the  men,  and  at  a  very 
good  price  too ;  for  WilHam,  who  spoke  Portuguese  pretty  well, 
told  them  a  fair  story  enough,  that  the  ship  was  in  scarcity  of 
provisions,  that  they  were  driven  a  great  way  out  of  their  way, 
and  indeed,  as  we  say,  out  of  their  knowledge,  and  that  they  must 
go  up  to  the  northward  as  far  as  Jamaica,  or  sell  there  upon  the 
coast.  This  was  a  very  plausible  tale,  and  was  easily  believed ; 
and,  if  you  observe  the  manner  of  the  negroes'  saihng,  and  what 
happened  in  their  voyage,  was  every  word  of  it  true. 

By  this  method,  and  being  true  to  one  another,  Wilham  passed 
for  what  he  was  —  I  mean,  for  a  very  honest  fellow ;  and  by  the 
assistance  of  one  planter,  who  sent  to  some  of  his  neighbour 
planters,  and  managed  the  trade  among  themselves,  he  got  a 
quick  market;  for  in  less  than  five  weeks  Wilham  sold  all  his 
negroes,  and  at  last  sold  the  ship  itself,  and  shipped  himself  and 
his  twenty  men,  with  two  negro  boys  whom  he  had  left,  in  a  sloop, 
one  of  those  which  the  planters  used  to  send  on  board  for  the 
negroes.  With  this  sloop  Captain  Wilham,  as  we  then  caUed 
him,  came  away,  and  found  us  at  Port  St  Pedro,  in  the  latitude  of 
32  degrees  30  minutes  south. 

Nothing  was  more  surprising  to  us  than  to  see  a  sloop  come 
along  the  coast,  carrying  Portuguese  colours,  and  come  in  directly 
to  us,  after  we  were  assured  he  had  discovered  both  our  ships. 
We  fired  a  gun,  upon  her  nearer  approach,  to  bring  her  to  an 
anchor,  but  immediately  she  fired  five  guns  by  way  of  salute,  and 


2i6  DANIEL   DEFOE 

spread  her  English  ancient.  Then  we  began  to  guess  it  was 
friend  Wilham,  but  wondered  what  was  the  meaning  of  his  being 
in  a  sloop,  whereas  we  sent  him  away  in  a  ship  of  near  300  tons ; 
but  he  soon  let  us  into  the  whole  history  of  his  management, 
with  which  we  had  a  great  deal  of  reason  to  be  very  well  satisfied. 
As  soon  as  he  had  brought  the  sloop  to  an  anchor,  he  came  aboard 
of  my  ship,  and  there  he  gave  us  an  account  how  he  began  to 
trade  by  the  help  of  a  Portuguese  planter,  who  hved  near  the 
seaside ;  how  he  went  on  shore  and  went  up  to  the  first  house  he 
could  see,  and  asked  the  man  of  the  house  to  sell  him  some  hogs, 
pretending  at  first  he  only  stood  in  upon  the  coast  to  take  in 
fresh  water  and  buy  some  provisions ;  and  the  man  not  only 
sold  him  seven  fat  hogs,  but  invited  him  in,  and  gave  him,  and 
five  men  he  had  with  him,  a  very  good  dinner ;  and  he  invited 
the  planter  on  board  his  ship,  and,  in  return  for  his  kindness, 
gave  him  a  negro  girl  for  his  wife. 

This  so  obliged  the  planter  that  the  next  morning  he  sent  him 
on  board,  in  a  great  luggage-boat,  a  cow  and  two  sheep,  with  a 
chest  of  sweetmeats  and  some  sugar,  and  a  great  bag  of  tobacco, 
and  invited  Captain  William  on  shore  again ;  that,  after  this, 
they  grew  from  one  kindness  to  another  ;  that  they  began  to  talk 
about  trading  for  some  negroes ;  and  WilHam,  pretending  it  was 
to  do  him  service,  consented  to  sell  him  thirty  negroes  for  his 
private  use  in  his  plantation,  for  which  he  gave  Wilham  ready 
money  in  gold,  at  the  rate  of  five-and-thirty  moidores  per  head  ; 
but  the  planter  was  obliged  to  use  great  caution  in  the  bringing 
them  on  shore ;  for  which  purpose  he  made  William  weigh  and 
stand  out  to  sea,  and  put  in  again,  about  fifty  miles  farther  north, 
where  at  a  httle  creek  he  took  the  negroes  on  shore  at  another 
plantation,  being  a  friend's  of  his,  whom,  it  seems,  he  could  trust. 

This  remove  brought  William  into  a  further  intimacy,  not  only 
with  the  first  planter,  but  also  with  his  friends,  who  desired 
to  have  some  of  the  negroes  also ;  so  that,  from  one  to  another, 
they  bought  so  many,  till  one  overgrown  planter  took  100  negroes, 
which  was  all  WiUiam  had  left,  and  sharing  them  with  another 
planter,  that  other  planter  chaffered  with  William  for  ship  and 
all,  giving  him  in  exchange  a  very  clean,  large,  well-built  sloop  of 
near  sixty  tons,  very  well  furnished,  carrying  six  guns ;   but  we 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    217 

made  her  afterwards  carry  twelve  guns.  William  had  300 
moidores  of  gold,  besides  the  sloop,  in  payment  for  the  ship ; 
and  with  this  money  he  stored  the  sloop  as  full  as  she  could  hold 
with  provisions,  especially  bread,  some  pork,  and  about  sixty 
hogs  ahve ;  among  the  rest,  Wilham  got  eighty  barrels  of  good 
gunpowder,  which  was  very  much  for  our  purpose ;  and  all  the 
provisions  which  were  in  the  French  ship  he  took  out  also. 

This  was  a  very  agreeable  account  to  us,  especially  when  we 
saw  that  William  had  received  in  gold  coined,  or  by  weight, 
and  some  Spanish  silver,  60,000  pieces  of  eight,  besides  a  new 
sloop,  and  a  vast  quantity  of  provisions. 


This  might  be  called,  indeed,  the  only  trading  voyage  we  had 
made ;  and  now  we  were  really  very  rich,  and  it  came  now 
naturally  before  us  to  consider  whither  we  should  go  next.  Our 
proper  dehvery  port,  as  we  ought  to  have  called  it,  was  at  Mada- 
gascar, in  the  Bay  of  Mangahelly ;  but  William  took  me  by 
myself  into  the  cabin  of  the  sloop  one  day,  and  told  me  he  wanted 
to  talk  seriously  with  me  a  little ;  so  we  shut  ourselves  in,  and 
William  began  with  me. 

"Wilt  thou  give  me  leave,"  says  William,  "  to  talk  plainly  with 
thee  upon  thy  present  circumstances,  and  thy  future  prospect  of 
living  ?  and  wilt  thou  promise,  on  thy  word,  to  take  nothing  ill  of 
me?" 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  I.  "William,  I  have  always  found 
your  advice  good,  and  your  designs  have  not  only  been  well  laid, 
but  your  counsel  has  been  very  lucky  to  us ;  and,  therefore,  say 
what  you  will,  I  promise  you  I  will  not  take  it  ill." 

"But  that  is  not  all  my  demand,"  says  Wilham  ;  "if  thou  dost 
not  like  what  I  am  going  to  propose  to  thee,  thou  shalt  promise 
me  not  to  make  it  public  among  the  men." 

"I  will  not,  William,"  says  I,  "upon  my  word  ;"  and  swore  to 
him,  too,  very  heartily. 

"Why,  then,"  says  Wilham,  "I  have  but  one  thing  more  to 
article  with  thee  about,  and  that  is,  that  thou  wilt  consent  that  if 
thou  dost  not  approve  of  it  for  thyself,  thou  wilt  yet  consent 
that  I  shall  put  so  much  of  it  in  practice  as  relates  to  myself 


2i8  DANIEL   DEFOE 

and  my  new  comrade  doctor,  so  that  it  be  nothing  to  thy  detri- 
ment and  loss." 

"In  anything,"  says  I,  "William,  but  leaving  me,  I  will;  but 
I  cannot  part  with  you  upon  any  terms  whatever." 

"Well,"  says  William,  "I  am  not  designing  to  part  from  thee, 
unless  it  is  thy  own  doing.  But  assure  me  in  all  these  points, 
and  I  will  tell  my  mind  freely." 

So  I  promised  him  everything  he  desired  of  me  in  the  solemnest 
manner  possible,  and  so  seriously  and  frankly  withal,  that  William 
made  no  scruple  to  open  his  mind  to  me. 

"Why,  then,  in  the  first  place,"  says  William,  "shall  I  ask  thee 
if  thou  dost  not  think  thou  and  all  thy  men  are  rich  enough,  and 
have  really  gotten  as  much  wealth  together  (by  whatsoever  way 
it  has  been  gotten,  that  is  not  the  question)  as  we  all  know  what 
to  do  with?" 

"Why,  truly,  William,"  said  I,  "thou  art  pretty  right;  I 
think  we  have  had  pretty  good  luck." 

"Well,  then,"  says  William,  "I  would  ask  whether,  if  thou 
hast  gotten  enough,  thou  hast  any  thought  of  leaving  off  this 
trade ;  for  most  people  leave  off  trading  when  they  are  satisfied 
of  getting,  and  are  rich  enough ;  for  nobody  trades  for  the  sake 
of  trading  ;  much  less  do  men  rob  for  the  sake  of  thieving." 

"Well,  WilHam,"  says  I,  "now  I  perceive  what  it  is  thou  art 
driving  at.  I  warrant  you,"  says  I,  "you  begin  to  hanker  after 
home." 

"Why,  truly,"  says  William,  "thou  hast  said  it,  and  so  I  hope 
thou  dost  too.  It  is  natural  for  most  men  that  are  abroad  to 
desire  to  come  home  again  at  last,  especially  when  they  are 
grown  rich,  and  when  they  are  (as  thou  ownest  thyself  to  be) 
rich  enough,  and  so  rich  as  they  know  not  what  to  do  with  more  if 
they  had  it." 

"Well,  William,"  said  I,  "but  now  you  think  you  have  laid 
your  preliminary  at  first  so  home  that  I  should  have  nothing 
to  say  ;  that  is,  that  when  I  had  got  money  enough,  it  would  be 
natural  to  think  of  going  home.  But  you  have  not  explained 
what  you  mean  by  home,  and  there  you  and  I  shall  differ.  Why, 
man,  I  am  at  home ;  here  is  my  habitation ;  I  never  had  any 
other  in  my  lifetime ;    I  was  a  kind  of  charity  school  boy ;    so 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    219 

that  I  can  have  no  desire  of  going  anywhere  for  being  rich  or 
poor,  for  I  have  nowhere  to  go." 

"Why,"  says  WiUiam,  looking  a  Httle  confused,  "art  not 
thou  an  EngUshman  ?  " 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "I  think  so  :  you  see  I  speak  English;  but  I 
came  out  of  England  a  child,  and  never  was  in  it  but  once  since  I 
was  a  man ;  and  then  I  was  cheated  and  imposed  upon,  and 
used  so  ill  that  I  care  not  if  I  never  see  it  more." 

"Why,  hast  thou  no  relations  or  friends  there?"  says  he; 
"no  acquaintance  —  none  that  thou  hast  any  kindness  or  any 
remains  of  respect  for  ?  " 

"Not  I,  William,"  said  I ;  "no  more  than  I  have  in  the  court 
of  the  Great  Mogul." 

"Nor  any  kindness  for  the  country  where  thou  wast  born?" 
says  William. 

"Not  I,  any  more  than  for  the  island  of  Madagascar,  nor  so 
much  neither ;  for  that  has  been  a  fortunate  island  to  me  more 
than  once,  as  thou  knowest,  William,"  said  I. 

Wilham  was  quite  stunned  at  my  discourse,  and  held  his  peace  ; 
and  I  said  to  him,  "Go  on,  William;  what  hast  thou  to  say 
farther  ?  for  I  hear  you  have  some  project  in  your  head,"  says  I ; 
"come,  let's  have  it  out." 

"Nay,"  says  William,  "thou  hast  put  me  to  silence,  and  all  I 
had  to  say  is  overthrown ;  all  my  projects  are  come  to  nothing, 
and  gone." 

"Well,  but,  William,"  said  I,  "let  me  hear  what  they  were; 
for  though  it  is  so  that  what  I  have  to  aim  at  does  not  look  your 
way,  and  though  I  have  no  relation,  no  friend,  no  acquaintance 
in  England,  yet  I  do  not  say  I  like  this  roving,  cruising  hfe  so 
well  as  never  to  give  it  over.  Let  me  hear  if  thou  canst  propose  to 
me  anything  beyond  it." 

"Certainly,  friend,"  says  WilHam,  very  gravely,  "there  is 
something  beyond  it ; "  and  lifting  up  his  hands,  he  seemed  very 
much  affected,  and  I  thought  I  saw  tears  stand  in  his  eyes; 
but  I,  that  was  too  hardened  a  wretch  to  be  moved  with  these 
things,  laughed  at  him.  "What !"  says  I,  "you  mean  death,  I 
warrant  you :  don't  you  ?  That  is  beyond  this  trade.  Why, 
when  it  comes,  it  comes  ;  then  we  are  all  provided  for." 


220  DANIEL   DEFOE 

"Ay,"  says  William,  "that  is  true  ;  but  it  would  be  better  that 
some  things  were  thought  on  before  that  came." 

"Thought  on  !"  says  I;  "what  signifies  thinking  of  it?  To 
think  of  death  is  to  die,  and  to  be  always  thinking  of  it  is  to  be 
all  one's  Ufe  long  a-dying.  It  is  time  enough  to  think  of  it  when 
it  comes." 

You  will  easily  believe  I  was  well  qualified  for  a  pirate  that 
could  talk  thus.  But  let  me  leave  it  upon  record,  for  the  remark 
of  other  hardened  rogues  like  myself,  — •  my  conscience  gave  me  a 
pang  that  I  never  felt  before  when  I  said,  "What  signifies  thinking 
of  it  ?  "  and  told  me  I  should  one  day  think  of  these  words  with  a 
sad  heart ;  but  the  time  of  my  reflection  was  not  yet  come ;  so 
I  went  on. 

Says  William  very  seriously,  "I  must  tell  thee,  friend,  I  am 
sorry  to  hear  thee  talk  so.  They  that  never  think  of  dying, 
often  die  without  thinking  of  it." 

I  carried  on  the  jesting  way  a  while  farther,  and  said,  "Prithee, 
do  not  talk  of  dying  ;  how  do  we  know  we  shall  ever  die  ?  "  and 
began  to  laugh. 

"I  need  not  answer  thee  to  that,"  says  William  ;  "it  is  not  my 
place  to  reprove  thee,  who  art  commander  over  me  here ;  but 
I  would  rather  thou  wouldst  talk  otherwise  of  death ;  it  is  a 
coarse  thing." 

"  Say  anything  to  me,  Wilham,"  said  I ;  "  I  will  take  it  kindly." 
I  began  now  to  be  very  much  moved  at  his  discourse. 

Says  Wilham  (tears  running  down  his  face),  "It  is  because  men 
live  as  if  they  were  never  to  die,  that  so  many  die  before  they 
know  how  to  live.  But  it  was  not  death  that  I  meant  when  I 
said  that  there  was  something  to  be  thought  of  beyond  this  way 
of  living." 

"Why,  WilUam,"  said  I,  "what  was  that?" 

"It  was  repentance,"  says  he. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "did  you  ever  know  a  pirate  repent?" 

At  this  he  startled  a  Httle,  and  returned,  "At  the  gallows  I 
have  [known  ^]  one  before,  and  I  hope  thou  wilt  be  the  second." 

"Well,  William,"  says  I,  "I  thank  you  ;  and  I  am  not  so  sense- 

^  In  earlier  editions  this  word  is  not  bracketed.  Cf.  Defoe's  Works,  London,  1840, 
vol.  Ill ;   London,  H.  G.  Bohn,  1854,  vol.  I,  etc. 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    221 

less  of  these  things,  perhaps,  as  I  make  myself  seem  to  be.  But 
come,  let  me  hear  your  proposal." 

"My  proposal,"  says  William,  "is  for  thy  good  as  well  as  my 
own.  We  may  put  an  end  to  this  kind  of  Hfe,  and  repent; 
and  I  think  the  fairest  occasion  offers  for  both,  at  this  very  time, 
that  ever  did,  or  ever  will,  or,  indeed,  can  happen  again." 

"Look  you,  Wilham,"  says  I ;  "let  me  have  your  proposal  for 
putting  an  end  to  our  present  way  of  living  first,  for  that  is  the 
case  before  us,  and  you  and  I  will  talk  of  the  other  afterwards. 
I  am  not  so  insensible,"  said  I,  "as  you  may  think  me  to  be. 
But  let  us  get  out  of  this  helHsh  condition  we  are  in  first." 

"Nay,"  says  Wilham,  "thou  art  in  the  right  there;  we  must 
never  talk  of  repenting  while  we  continue  pirates." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "William,  that's  what  I  meant ;  for  if  we  must 
not  reform,  as  well  as  be  sorry  for  what  is  done,  I  have  no  notion 
what  repentance  means ;  indeed,  at  best  I  know  httle  of  the 
matter  ;  but  the  nature  of  the  thing  seems  to  tell  me  that  the  first 
step  we  have  to  take  is  to  break  off  this  wretched  course ;  and 
I'll  begin  there  with  you,  with  all  my  heart." 

I  could  see  by  his  countenance  that  William  was  thoroughly 
pleased  with  the  offer ;  and  if  he  had  tears  in  his  eyes  before,  he 
had  more  now ;  but  it  was  from  quite  a  different  passion ;  for 
he  was  so  swallowed  up  with  joy  he  could  not  speak. 

"Come,  Wilham,"  says  I,  "thou  showest  me  plain  enough 
thou  hast  an  honest  meaning ;  dost  thou  think  it  practicable  for 
us  to  put  an  end  to  our  unhappy  way  of  hving  here,  and  get  off  ?  " 

"Yes,"  says  he,  "I  think  it  very  practicable  for  me;  whether 
it  is  for  thee  or  no,  that  wih  depend  upon  thyself." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "I  give  you  my  word,  that  as  I  have  com- 
manded you  all  along,  from  the  time  I  first  took  you  on  board, 
so  you  shall  command  me  from  this  hour,  and  everything  you 
direct  me  I'll  do." 

"Wilt  thou  leave  it  all  to  me  ?     Dost  thou  say  this  freely  ? " 

"Yes,  Wilham,"  said  I,  "freely;  and  I'll  perform  it  faith- 
fully." 

"Why,  then,"  says  William,  "my  scheme  is  this  :  We  are  now 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Gulf  of  Persia ;  we  have  sold  so  much  of  our 
cargo  here  at  Surat,  that  we  have  money  enough  ;  send  me  away 


222  DANIEL   DEFOE 

for  Bassorah  with  the  sloop,  laden  with  the  China  goods  we  have 
on  board,  which  will  make  another  good  cargo,  and  I'll  warrant 
thee  I'll  find  means,  among  the  Enghsh  and  Dutch  merchants 
there,  to  lodge  a  quantity  of  goods  and  money  also  as  a  merchant, 
so  as  we  will  be  able  to  have  recourse  to  it  again  upon  any  oc- 
casion, and  when  I  come  home  we  will  contrive  the  rest;  and, 
in  the  meantime,  do  you  bring  the  ship's  crew  to  take  a  resolution 
to  go  to  Madagascar  as  soon  as  I  return." 

I  told  him  I  thought  he  need  not  go  so  far  as  Bassorah,  but 
might  run  into  Gombroon,  or  to  Ormuz,  and  pretend  the  same 
business. 

"No,"  says  he,  "I  cannot  act  with  the  same  freedom  there, 
because  the  Company's  factories  are  there,  and  I  may  be  laid 
hold  of  there  on  pretence  of  interloping." 

"Well,  but,"  said  I,  "you  may  go  to  Ormuz,  then;  for  I  am 
loth  to  part  with  you  so  long  as  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  Persian 
Gulf."  He  returned,  that  I  should  leave  it  to  him  to  do  as  he 
should  see  cause. 

We  had  taken  a  large  sum  of  money  at  Surat,  so  that  we  had 
near  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  in  money  at  our  command,  but 
on  board  the  great  ship  we  had  still  a  great  deal  more. 

I  ordered  him  publicly  to  keep  the  money  on  board  which  he 
had,  and  to  buy  up  with  it  a  quantity  of  ammunition,  if  he  could 
get  it,  and  so  to  furnish  us  for  new  exploits  ;  and,  in  the  meantime, 
I  resolved  to  get  a  quantity  of  gold  and  some  jewels,  which  I 
had  on  board  the  great  ship,  and  place  them  so  that  I  might  carry 
them  off  without  notice  as  soon  as  he  came  back ;  and  so,  accord- 
ing to  WiUiam's  directions,  I  left  him  to  go  the  voyage,  and  I 
went  on  board  the  great  ship,  in  which  we  had  indeed  an  immense 
treasure. 

We  waited  no  less  than  two  months  for  WilHam's  return,  and 
indeed  I  began  to  be  very  uneasy  about  WilHam,  sometimes 
thinking  he  had  abandoned  me,  and  that  he  might  have  used  the 
same  artifice  to  have  engaged  the  other  men  to  comply  with  him, 
and  so  they  were  gone  away  together ;  and  it  was  but  three  days 
before  his  return  that  I  was  just  upon  the  point  of  resolving  to  go 
away  to  Madagascar,  and  give  him  over;  but  the  old  surgeon, 
who  mimicked  the  Quaker  and  passed  for  the  master  of  the  sloop 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    223 

at  Surat,  persuaded  me  against  that,  for  which  good  advice 
and  apparent  faithfulness  in  what  he  had  been  trusted  with, 
I  made  him  a  party  to  my  design,  and  he  proved  very  honest. 

At  length  Wilham  came  back,  to  our  inexpressible  joy,  and 
brought  a  great  many  necessary  things  with  him ;  as,  particu- 
larly, he  brought  sixty  barrels  of  powder,  some  iron  shot,  and 
about  thirty  ton  of  lead ;  also  he  brought  a  great  deal  of  provi- 
sions ;  and,  in  a  word,  William  gave  me  a  pubHc  account  of  his 
voyage,  in  the  hearing  of  whoever  happened  to  be  upon  the 
quarter-deck,  that  no  suspicions  might  be  found  about  us. 

After  all  was  done,  William  moved  that  he  might  go  up  again, 
and  that  I  would  go  with  him ;  named  several  things  which  we 
had  on  board  that  he  could  not  sell  there  ;  and,  particularly,  told 
us  he  had  been  obliged  to  leave  several  things  there,  the  caravans 
being  not  come  in  ;  and  that  he  had  engaged  to  come  back  again 
with  goods.  . 

This  was  what  I  wanted.  The  men  were  eager  for  his  going, 
and  particularly  because  he  told  them  they  might  load  the  sloop 
back  with  rice  and  provisions ;  but  I  seemed  backward  to  going, 
when  the  old  surgeon  stood  up  and  persuaded  me  to  go,  and  with 
many  arguments  pressed  me  to  it ;  as,  particularly,  if  I  did  not 
go,  there  would  be  no  order,  and  several  of  the  men  might  drop 
away,  and  perhaps  betray  all  the  rest ;  and  that  they  should  not 
think  it  safe  for  the  sloop  to  go  again  if  I  did  not  go  ;  and  to  urge 
me  to  it,  he  offered  himself  to  go  with  me. 

Upon  these  considerations  I  seemed  to  be  overpersuaded  to 
go,  and  all  the  company  seemed  to  be  better  satisfied  when  I 
had  consented ;  and,  accordingly,  we  took  all  the  powder,  lead, 
and  iron  out  of  the  sloop  into  the  great  ship,  and  all  the  other 
things  that  were  for  the  ship's  use,  and  put  in  some  bales  of 
spices  and  casks  or  frails  of  cloves,  in  all  about  seven  ton,  and 
some  other  goods,  among  the  bales  of  which  I  had  conveyed  all 
my  private  treasure,  which,  I  assure  you,  was  of  no  small  value, 
and  away  I  went. 

At  going  off  I  called  a  council  of  all  the  officers  in  the  ship  to 
consider  in  what  place  they  should  wait  for  me,  and  how  long, 
and  we  appointed  the  ship  to  stay  eight-and-twenty  days  at  a 
little  island  on  the  Arabian  side  of  the  Gulf,  and  that,  if  the  sloop 


2  24  DANIEL   DEFOE 

did  not  come  in  that  time,  they  should  sail  to  another  island  to 
the  west  of  that  place,  and  wait  there  fifteen  days  more,  and  that 
then,  if  the  sloop  did  not  come,  they  should  conclude  some 
accident  must  have  happened,  and  the  rendezvous  should  be  at 
Madagascar. 

Being  thus  resolved,  we  left  the  ship,  which  both  William  and 
I,  and  the  surgeon,  never  intended  to  see  any  more.  We  steered 
directly  for  the  Gulf,  and  through  to  Bassorah,  or  Balsara.  This 
city  of  Balsara  lies  at  some  distance  from  the  place  where  our 
sloop  lay,  and  the  river  not  being  very  safe,  and  we  but  ill  ac- 
quainted with  it,  having  but  an  ordinary  pilot,  we  went  on  shore 
at  a  village  where  some  merchants  live,  and  which  is  very  popu- 
lous, for  the  sake  of  small  vessels  riding  there. 

Here  we  stayed  and  traded  three  or  four  days,  landing  all  our 
bales  and  spices,  and  indeed  the  whole  cargo  that  was  of  any 
considerable  value,  which  we  chose  to  do  rather  than  go  up 
immediately  to  Balsara  till  the  project  we  had  laid  was  put  in 
execution. 

After  we  had  bought  several  goods,  and  were  preparing  to  buy 
several  others,  the  boat  being  on  shore  with  twelve  men,  myself, 
William,  the  surgeon,  and  one  fourth  man,  whom  we  had  singled 
out,  we  contrived  to  send  a  Turk  just  at  the  dusk  of  the  evening 
with  a  letter  to  the  boatswain,  and  giving  the  fellow  a  charge 
to  run  with  all  possible  speed,  we  stood  at  a  small  distance  to 
observe  the  event.  The  contents  of  the  letter  were  thus  written 
by  the  old  doctor :  — 

'' Boatswain  Thomas,  —  We  are  all  betrayed.  For  God's 
sake  make  off  with  the  boat,  and  get  on  board,  or  you  are  all  lost. 
The  captain,  William  the  Quaker,  and  George  the  reformade 
are  seized  and  carried  away :  I  am  escaped  and  hid,  but  cannot 
stir  out ;  if  I  do  I  am  a  dead  man.  As  soon  as  you  are  on  board 
cut  or  slip,  and  make  sail  for  your  lives.     Adieu.  —  R.S." 

We  stood  undiscovered,  as  above,  it  being  the  dusk  of  the 
evening,  and  saw  the  Turk  deliver  the  letter,  and  in  three  minutes 
we  saw  all  the  men  hurry  into  the  boat  and  put  ofT,  and  no  sooner 
were  they  on  board  than  they  took  the  hint,  as  we  supposed,  for 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    225 

the  next  morning  they  were  out  of  sight,  and  we  never  heard 
tale  or  tidings  of  them  since. 

We  were  now  in  a  good  place,  and  in  very  good  circumstances, 
for  we  passed  for  merchants  of  Persia. 

It  is  not  material  to  record  here  what  a  mass  of  ill-gotten 
wealth  we  had  got  together :  it  will  be  more  to  the  purpose  to 
tell  you  that  I  began  to  be  sensible  of  the  crime  of  getting  of 
it  in  such  a  manner  as  I  had  done ;  that  I  had  very  little  satisfac- 
tion in  the  possession  of  it ;  and,  as  I  told  WiUiam,  I  had  no  ex- 
pectation of  keeping  it,  nor  much  desire ;  but,  as  I  said  to  him 
one  day  walking  out  into  the  fields  near  the  town  of  Bassorah, 
so  I  depended  upon  it  that  it  would  be  the  case,  which  you  will 
hear  presently. 

We  were  perfectly  secured  at  Bassorah,  by  having  frightened 
away  the  rogues,  our  comrades  ;  and  we  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
consider  how  to  convert  our  treasure  into  things  proper  to  make 
us  look  like  merchants,  as  we  were  now  to  be,  and  not  hke 
freebooters,  as  we  really  had  been. 

We  happened  very  opportunely  here  upon  a  Dutchman,  who 
had  travelled  from  Bengal  to  Agra,  the  capital  city  of  the  Great 
Mogul,  and  from  thence  was  come  to  the  coast  of  Malabar  by 
land,  and  got  shipping,  somehow  or  other,  up  the  Gulf ;  and  we 
found  his  design  was  to  go  up  the  great  river  to  Bagdad  or  Baby- 
lon, and  so,  by  the  caravan,  to  Aleppo  and  Scanderoon.  As 
William  spoke  Dutch,  and  was  of  an  agreeable,  insinuating  be- 
haviour, he  soon  got  acquainted  with  this  Dutchman,  and  dis- 
covering our  circumstances  to  one  another,  we  found  he  had  con- 
siderable effects  with  him ;  and  that  he  had  traded  long  in  that 
country,  and  was  making  homeward  to  his  own  country  ;  and  that 
he  had  servants  with  him  ;  one  an  Armenian,  whom  he  had  taught 
to  speak  Dutch,  and  who  had  something  of  his  own,  but  had  a 
mind  to  travel  into  Europe  ;  and  the  other  a  Dutch  sailor,  whom 
he  had  picked  up  by  his  fancy,  and  reposed  a  great  trust  in  him, 
and  a  very  honest  fellow  he  was. 

This  Dutchman  was  very  glad  of  an  acquaintance,  because  he 
soon  found  that  we  directed  our  thoughts  to  Europe  also;  and 
as  he  found  we  were  encumbered  with  goods  only  (for  we  let  him 
know  nothing  of  our  money),  he  readily  offered  us  his  assistance 


226  DANIEL   DEFOE 

to  dispose  of  as  many  of  them  as  the  place  we  were  in  would  put  off, 
and  his  advice  what  to  do  with  the  rest. 

While  this  was  doing,  William  and  I  consulted  what  to  do 
with  ourselves  and  what  we  had  ;  and  first,  we  resolved  we  would 
never  talk  seriously  of  our  measures  but  in  the  open  fields,  where 
we  were  sure  nobody  could  hear ;  so  every  evening,  when  the  sun 
began  to  decline  and  the  air  to  be  moderate  we  walked  out, 
sometimes  this  way,  sometimes  that,  to  consult  of  our  affairs. 

I  should  have  observed  that  we  had  new  clothed  ourselves  here, 
after  the  Persian  manner,  with  long  vests  of  silk,  a  gown  or  robe  of 
English  crimson  cloth,  very  fine  and  handsome,  and  had  let 
our  beards  grow  so  after  the  Persian  manner  that  we  passed  for 
Persian  merchants,  in  view  only,  though,  by  the  way,  we  could 
not  understand  or  speak  one  word  of  the  language  of  Persia,  or 
indeed  of  any  other  but  English  and  Dutch ;  and  of  the  latter 
I  understand  very  little. 

However,  the  Dutchman  supplied  all  this  for  us ;  and  as  we  had 
resolved  to  keep  ourselves  as  retired  as  we  could,  though  there 
were  several  English  merchants  upon  the  place,  yet  we  never 
acquainted  ourselves  with  one  of  them,  or  exchanged  a  word  with 
them  ;  by  which  means  we  prevented  their  inquiry  of  us  now,  or 
their  giving  any  intelligence  of  us,  if  any  news  of  our  landing 
here  should  happen  to  come,  which,  it  was  easy  for  us  to  know, 
was  possible  enough,  if  any  of  our  comrades  fell  into  bad  hands, 
or  by  many  accidents  which  we  could  not  foresee. 

It  was  during  my  being  here,  for  here  we  stayed  near  two 
months,  that  I  grew  very  thoughtful  about  my  circumstances ; 
not  as  to  the  danger,  neither  indeed  were  we  in  any,  but  were 
entirely  concealed  and  unsuspected ;  but  I  really  began  to  have 
other  thoughts  'of  myself,  and  of  the  world,  than  ever  I  had 
before. 

William  had  struck  so  deep  into  my  unthinking  temper  with 
hinting  to  me  that  there  was  something  beyond  all  this ;  that 
the  present  time  was  the  time  of  enjoyment,  but  that  the  time  of 
account  approached ;  that  the  work  that  remained  was  gentler 
than  the  labour  past,  viz.,  repentance,  and  that  it  was  high  time 
to  think  of  it ;  — ^  I  say  these,  and  such  thoughts  as  these,  en- 
grossed my  hours,  and,  in  a  word,  I  grew  very  sad. 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    227 

As  to  the  wealth  I  had,  which  was  immensely  great,  it  was  all 
like  dirt  under  my  feet ;  I  had  no  value  for  it,  no  peace  in  the 
possession  of  it,  no  great  concern  about  me  for  the  leaving  of  it. 

William  had  perceived  my  thoughts  to  be  troubled  and  my 
mind  heavy  and  oppressed  for  some  time ;  and  one  evening,  in 
one  of  our  cool  walks,  I  began  with  him  about  the  leaving  our 
effects.  Wilham  was  a  wise  and  wary  man,  and  indeed  all  the 
prudentials  of  my  conduct  had  for  a  long  time  been  owing  to 
his  advice,  and  so  now  all  the  methods  for  preserving  our  effects, 
and  even  ourselves,  lay  upon  him  ;  and  he  had  been  telling  me  of 
some  of  the  measures  he  had  been  taking  for  our  making  home- 
ward, and  for  the  security  of  our  wealth,  when  I  took  him  very 
short .  ' '  Why ,  William , ' '  says  I ,  "  dost  thou  think  we  shall  ever  be 
able  to  reach  Europe  with  all  this  cargo  that  we  have  about  us  ?" 

''Ay,"  says  William,  "without  doubt,  as  well  as  other  mer- 
chants with  theirs,  as  long  as  it  is  not  publicly  known  what  quan- 
tity or  of  what  value  our  cargo  consists." 

"Why,  William,"  says  I,  smiling,  "do  you  think  that  if  there  is 
a  God  above,  as  you  have  so  long  been  telling  me  there  is,  and 
that  we  must  give  an  account  to  Him,  —  I  say,  do  you  think,  if 
He  be  a  righteous  Judge,  He  will  let  us  escape  thus  with  the 
plunder,  as  we  may  call  it,  of  so  many  innocent  people,  nay,  I 
might  say  nations,  and  not  call  us  to  an  account  for  it  before  we 
can  get  to  Europe,  where  we  pretend  to  enjoy  it  ?" 

William  appeared  struck  and  surprised  at  the  question,  and 
made  no  answer  for  a  great  while ;  and  I  repeated  the  question, 
adding  that  it  was  not  to  be  expected. 

After  a  httle  pause,  says  Wilham,  "Thou  hast  started  a  very 
weighty  question,  and  I  can  make  no  positive  answer  to  it ;  but 
I  will  state  it  thus  :  first,  it  is  true  that,  if  we  consider  the  justice 
of  God,  we  have  no  reason  to  expect  any  protection ;  but  as 
the  ordinary  ways  of  Providence  are  out  of  the  common  road  of 
human  affairs,  so  we  may  hope  for  mercy  still  upon  our  repent- 
ance, and  we  know  not  how  good  He  may  be  to  us ;  so  we  are  to 
act  as  if  we  rather  depended  upon  the  last,  I  mean  the  merciful 
part,  than  claimed  the  first,  which  must  produce  nothing  but 
judgment  and  vengeance." 

"But  hark  ye,  William,"  says  I,  "the  nature  of  repentance,  as 


2  28  DANIEL   DEFOE 

you  have  hinted  once  to  me,  included  reformation ;  and  we 
can  never  reform  ;  how,  then,  can  we  repent  ?  " 

"Why  can  we  never  reform?"  says  WilHam. 

"Because,"  said  I,  "we  cannot  restore  what  we  have  taken 
away  by  rapine  and  spoil." 

"It  is  true,"  says  William,  "we  never  can  do  that,  for  we  can 
never  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  owners." 

"But  what,  then,  must  be  done  with  our  wealth,"  said  I,  "  the 
effects  of  plunder  and  rapine  ?  If  we  keep  it,  we  continue  to  be 
robbers  and  thieves ;  and  if  we  quit  it  we  cannot  do  justice  -wdth 
it,  for  we  cannot  restore  it  to  the  right  owners." 

"Nay,"  says  William,  "the  answer  to  it  is  short.  To  quit 
what  we  have,  and  do  it  here,  is  to  throw  it  away  to  those  who 
have  no  claim  to  it,  and  to  divest  ourselves  of  it,  but 
to  do  no  right  with  it ;  whereas  we  ought  to  keep  it  carefully 
together,  with  a  resolution  to  do  what  right  with  it  we  are  able ; 
and  who  knows  what  opportunity  Providence  may  put  into  our 
hands  to  do  justice,  at  least,  to  some  of  those  we  have  injured  ? 
So  we  ought,  at  least,  to  leave  it  to  Him  and  go  on.  As  it  is, 
without  doubt  our  present  business  is  to  go  to  some  place  of 
safety,  where  we  may  wait  His  will." 

This  resolution  of  William  was  very  satisfying  to  me  indeed,  as, 
the  truth  is,  all  he  said,  and  at  all  times,  was  solid  and  good ; 
and  had  not  William  thus,  as  it  were,  quieted  my  mind,  I  think, 
verily,  I  was  so  alarmed  at  the  just  reason  I  had  to  expect  ven- 
geance from  Heaven  upon  me  for  my  ill-gotten  wealth,  that  I 
should  have  run  away  from  it  as  the  devil's  goods,  that  I  had 
nothing  to  do  with,  that  did  not  belong  to  me,  and  that  I  had  no 
right  to  keep,  and  was  in  certain  danger  of  being  destroyed  for. 

However,  William  settled  my  mind  to  more  prudent  steps  than 
these,  and  I  concluded  that  I  ought,  however,  to  proceed  to  a 
place  of  safety,  and  leave  the  event  to  God  Almighty's  mercy. 
But  this  I  must  leave  upon  record,  that  I  had  from  this  time  no 
joy  of  the  wealth  I  had  got.  I  looked  upon  it  all  as  stolen,  and 
so  indeed  the  greatest  part  of  it  was.  I  looked  upon  it  as  a  hoard 
of  other  men's  goods,  which  I  had  robbed  the  innocent  owners  of, 
and  which  I  ought,  in  a  word,  to  be  hanged  for  here,  and  damned 
for  hereafter.     And  now,  indeed,  I  began  sincerely  to  hate  myself 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    229 

for  a  dog ;  a  wretch  that  had  been  a  thief  and  a  murderer ;  a 
wretch  that  was  in  a  condition  which  nobody  was  ever  in ;  for 
I  had  robbed,  and  though  I  had  the  wealth  by  me,  yet  it  was  im- 
possible I  should  ever  make  any  restitution ;  and  upon  this  ac- 
count it  ran  in  my  head  that  I  could  never  repent,  for  that  re- 
pentance could  not  be  sincere  without  restitution,  and  therefore 
must  of  necessity  be  damned.  There  was  no  room  for  me  to 
escape.  I  went  about  with  my  heart  full  of  these  thoughts, 
Httle  better  than  a  distracted  fellow  ;  in  short,  running  headlong 
into  the  dreadfullest  despair,  and  premeditating  nothing  but  how 
to  rid  myself  out  of  the  world ;  and,  indeed,  the  devil,  if  such 
things  are  of  the  devil's  immediate  doing,  followed  his  work  very 
close  with  me,  and  nothing  lay  upon  my  mind  for  several  days 
but  to  shoot  myself  into  the  head  with  my  pistol. 

I  was  all  this  while  in  a  vagrant  life,  among  infidels,  Turks, 
pagans,  and  such  sort  of  people.  I  had  no  minister,  no  Christian 
to  converse  with  but  poor  William.  He  was  my  ghostly  father 
or  confessor,  and  he  was  all  the  comfort  I  had.  As  for  my 
knowledge  of  religion,  you  have  heard  my  history.  You  may 
suppose  I  had  not  much ;  and  as  for  the  Word  of  God,  I  do  not 
remember  that  I  ever  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  in  my  lifetime. 
I  was  little  Bob  at  Bussleton,  and  went  to  school  to  learn  my 
Testament. 

However,  it  pleased  God  to  make  William  the  Quaker  every- 
thing to  me.  Upon  this  occasion,  I  took  him  out  one  evening,  as 
usual,  and  hurried  him  away  into  the  fields  with  me,  in  more 
haste  than  ordinary ;  and  there,  in  short,  I  told  him  the  per- 
plexity of  my  mind,  and  under  what  terrible  temptations  of  the 
devil  I  had  been ;  that  I  must  shoot  myself,  for  I  could  not  sup- 
port the  weight  and  terror  that  was  upon  me. 

"Shoot  yourself !"  says  Wilham  ;  "why,  what  will  that  do  for 
you?" 

"Why,"  says  I,  "it  will  put  an  end  to  a  miserable  life." 

"Well,"  says  William,  "are  you  satisfied  the  next  will  be 
better?" 

"No,  no,"  says  I ;  "much  worse,  to  be  sure." 

"Why,  then,"  says  he,  "shooting  yourself  is  the  devil's  mo- 
tion, no  doubt ;    for  it  is  the  devil  of  a  reason,  that,  because 


230  DANIEL   DEFOE 

thou  art  in  an  ill  case,  therefore  thou  must  put  thyself  into  a 
worse." 

This  shocked  my  reason  indeed.  "Well,  but,"  says  I,  "there 
is  no  bearing  the  miserable  condition  I  am  in." 

"Very  well,"  says  William  ;  "  but  it  seems  there  is  some  bearing 
a  worse  condition  ;  and  so  you  will  shoot  yourself,  that  you  may 
be  past  remedy?" 

"I  am  past  remedy  already,"  says  I. 

"How  do  you  know  that  ? "  says  he. 

"I  am  satisfied  of  it,"  said  I. 

"Well,"  says  he,  "but  you  are  not  sure  ;  so  you  will  shoot  your- 
self to  make  it  certain ;  for  though  on  this  side  death  you  can- 
not be  sure  you  will  be  damned  at  all,  yet  the  moment  you  step 
on  the  other  side  of  time  you  are  sure  of  it ;  for  when  it  is  done, 
it  is  not  to  be  said  then  that  you  will  be,  but  that  you  are 
damned." 

"Well,  but,"  says  William,  as  if  he  had  been  between  jest  and 
earnest,  "pray,  what  didst  thou  dream  of  last  night?" 

"Why,"  said  I,  "I  had  frightful  dreams  all  night;  and,  par- 
ticularly, I  dreamed  that  the  devil  came  for  me,  and  asked  me 
what  my  name  was ;  and  I  told  him.  Then  he  asked  me  what 
trade  I  was.  '  Trade  ? '  says  I ;  '  I  am  a  thief,  a  rogue,  by  my  call- 
ing :  I  am  a  pirate  and  a  murderer,  and  ought  to  be  hanged.' 
'Ay,  ay,'  says  the  devil,  'so  you  do;  and  you  are  the  man  I 
looked  for,  and  therefore  come  along  with  me.'  At  which  I 
was  most  horribly  frighted,  and  cried  out  so  that  it  waked  me  ; 
and  I  have  been  in  horrible  agony  ever  since." 

"Very  well,"  says  William;  "come,  give  me  the  pistol  thou 
talkedst  of  just  now." 

"Why,"  says  I,  "what  will  you  do  with  it ? " 

"Do  with  it !"  says  William.  "Why,  thou  needest  not  shoot 
thyself ;  I  shall  be  obliged  to  do  it  for  thee.  Why,  thou  wilt 
destroy  us  all." 

"What  do  you  mean,  William  ?"  said  I. 

"Mean!"  said  he;  "nay,  what  didst  thou  mean,  to  cry  out 
aloud  in  thy  sleep,  '  I  am  a  thief,  a  pirate,  a  murderer,  and  ought 
to  be  hanged'?  Why,  thou  wilt  ruin  us  all.  'Twas  well  the 
Dutchman  did  not  understand  English.     In  short,  I  must  shoot 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    231 

thee,  to  save  my  own  life.  Come,  come,"  says  he,  "give  me 
thy  pistol." 

I  confess  this  terrified  me  again  another  way,  and  I  began  to 
be  sensible  that,  if  anybody  had  been  near  me  to  understand 
Enghsh,  I  had  been  undone.  The  thought  of  shooting  myself 
forsook  me  from  that  time;  and  I  turned  to  William,  "You 
disorder  me  extremely,  WiUiam,"  said  I ;  "why,  I  am  never  safe, 
nor  is  it  safe  to  keep  me  company.  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  shall 
betray  you  all." 

"Come,  come,  friend  Bob,"  says  he,  "I'll  put  an  end  to  it  all, 
if  you  will  take  my  advice." 

"How's  that?"  said  I. 

"Why,  only,"  says  he,  "that  the  next  time  thou  talkest  with 
the  devil,  thou  wilt  talk  a  httle  softfier,  or  we  shall  be  all  undone, 
and  you  too." 

This  frighted  me,  I  must  confess,  and  allayed  a  great  deal  of 
the  trouble  of  mind  I  was  in.  But  William,  after  he  had  done 
jesting  with  me,  entered  upon  a  very  long  and  serious  discourse 
with  me  about  the  nature  of  my  circumstances,  and  about 
repentance ;  that  it  ought  to  be  attended,  indeed,  with  a  deep 
abhorrence  of  the  crime  that  I  had  to  charge  myself  with  ;  but 
that  to  despair  of  God's  mercy  was  no  part  of  repentance,  but 
putting  myself  into  the  condition  of  the  devil ;  indeed,  that  I  must 
apply  myself  with  a  sincere,  humble  confession  of  my  crime,  to 
ask  pardon  of  God,  whom  I  had  offended,  and  cast  myself  upon 
His  mercy,  resolving  to  be  willing  to  make  restitution,  if  ever  it 
should  please  God  to  put  it  in  my  power,  even  to  the  utmost  of 
what  I  had  in  the  world.  And  this,  he  told  me,  was  the  method 
which  he  had  resolved  upon  himself ;  and  in  this,  he  told  me,  he 
had  found  comfort. 

I  had  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction  in  William's  discourse,  and  it 
quieted  me  very  much  ;  but  William  was  very  anxious  ever  after 
about  my  talking  in  my  sleep,  and  took  care  to  lie  with  me  always 
himself,  and  to  keep  me  from  lodging  in  any  house  where  so  much 
as  a  word  of  English  was  understood. 

However,  there  was  not  the  like  occasion  afterward  ;  for  I  was 
much  more  composed  in  my  mind,  and  resolved  for  the  future  to 
live  a  quite  different  hfe  from  what  I  had  done.     As  to  the  wealth 


232  DANIEL   DEFOE 

I  had,  I  looked  upon  it  as  nothing ;  I  resolved  to  set  it  apart  to 
any  such  opportunity  of  doing  justice  as  God  should  put  into  my 
hand  ;  and  the  miraculous  opportunity  I  had  afterward  of  apply- 
ing some  parts  of  it  to  preserve  a  ruined  family,  whom  I  had 
plundered,  may  be  worth  reading,  if  I  have  room  for  it  in  this 
account. 

With  these  resolutions  I  began  to  be  restored  to  some  degree  of 
quiet  in  my  mind ;  and  having,  after  almost  three  months'  stay 
at  Bassorah,  disposed  of  some  goods,  but  having  a  great  quantity 
left,  we  hired  boats  according  to  the  Dutchman's  direction,  and 
went  up  to  Bagdad,  or  Babylon,  on  the  river  Tigris,  or  rather 
Euphrates.  We  had  a  very  considerable  cargo  of  goods  with  us, 
and  therefore  made  a  great  figure  there,  and  were  received  with 
respect.  We  had,  in  particular,  two-and-forty  bales  of  Indian 
stuffs  of  sundry  sorts,  silks,  muslins,  and  fine  chintz ;  we  had 
fifteen  bales  of  very  fine  China  silks,  and  seventy  packs  or  bales 
of  spices,  particularly  cloves  and  nutmegs,  with  other  goods. 
We  were  bid  money  here  for  our  cloves,  but  the  Dutchman  ad- 
vised us  not  to  part  with  them,  and  told  us  we  should  get  a  better 
price  at  Aleppo,  or  in  the  Levant ;  so  we  prepared  for  the  caravan. 

We  concealed  our  having  any  gold  or  pearls  as  much  as  we 
could,  and  therefore  sold  three  or  four  bales  of  China  silks  and 
Indian  calicoes,  to  raise  money  to  buy  camels  and  to  pay  the 
customs  which  are  taken  at  several  places,  and  for  our  provisions 
over  the  deserts. 

I  travelled  this  journey,  careless  to  the  last  degree  of  my  goods 
or  wealth,  beHeving  that,  as  I  came  by  it  all  by  rapine  and  vio- 
lence, God  would  direct  that  it  should  be  taken  from  me  again  in 
the  same  manner ;  and,  indeed,  I  think  I  might  say  I  was  very 
willing  it  should  be  so.  But,  as  I  had  a  merciful  Protector 
above  me,  so  I  had  a  most  faithful  steward,  counsellor,  partner,  or 
whatever  I  might  call  him,  who  was  my  guide,  my  pilot,  my 
governor,  my  everything,  and  took  care  both  of  me  and  of  all  we 
had ;  and  though  he  had  never  been  in  any  of  these  parts  of  the 
world,  yet  he  took  the  care  of  all  upon  him ;  and  in  about  nine- 
and-fifty  days  we  arrived  from  Bassorah,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
river  Tigris  or  Euphrates,  through  the  desert,  and  through 
Aleppo  to  Alexandria,  or,  as  we  call  it,  Scanderoon,  in  the  Levant. 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    233 

Here  William  and  I,  and  the  other  two,  our  faithful  comrades, 
debated  what  we  should  do  ;  and  here  WiUiam  and  I  resolved  to 
separate  from  the  other  two,  they  resolving  to  go  with  the  Dutch- 
man into  Holland,  by  the  means  of  some  Dutch  ship  which  lay 
then  in  the  road.  WiUiam  and  I  told  them  we  resolved  to  go  and 
settle  in  the  Morea,  which  then  belonged  to  the  Venetians. 

It  is  true  we  acted  wisely  in  it  not  to  let  them  know  whither 
we  went,  seeing  we  had  resolved  to  separate ;  but  we  took  our 
old  doctor's  directions  how  to  write  to  him  in  Holland,  and  in 
England,  that  we  might  have  intelHgence  from  him  on  occasion, 
and  promised  to  give  him  an  account  how  to  write  to  us,  which 
we  afterwards  did,  as  may  in  time  be  made  out. 

We  stayed  here  some  time  after  they  were  gone,  till  at  length, 
not  being  thoroughly  resolved  whither  to  go  till  then,  a  Venetian 
ship  touched  at  Cyprus,  and  put  in  at  Scanderoon  to  look  for 
freight  home.  We  took  the  hint,  and  bargaining  for  our  passage, 
and  the  freight  of  our  goods,  we  embarked  for  Venice,  where,  in 
two-and-twenty  days,  we  arrived  safe,  with  all  our  treasure, 
and  with  such  a  cargo,  take  our  goods  and  our  money  and  our 
jewels  together,  as,  I  believed,  was  never  brought  into  the  city 
by  two  single  men,  since  the  state  of  Venice  had  a  being. 

We  kept  ourselves  here  incognito  for  a  great  while,  passing  for 
two  Armenian  merchants  still,  as  we  had  done  before ;  and  by 
this  time  we  had  gotten  so  much  of  the  Persian  and  Armenian 
jargon,  which  they  talked  at  Bassorah  and  Bagdad,  and  every- 
where that  we  came  in  the  country,  as  was  sufficient  to  make  us 
able  to  talk  to  one  another,  so  as  not  to  be  understood  by  anybody, 
though  sometimes  hardly  by  ourselves. 

Here  we  converted  all  our  effects  into  money,  settled  our  abode 
as  for  a  considerable  time,  and  William  and  I,  maintaining 
an  inviolable  friendship  and  fidehty  to  one  another,  Hved  like 
two  brothers ;  we  neither  had  or  sought  any  separate  interest ; 
we  conversed  seriously  and  gravely,  and  upon  the  subject  of  our 
repentance  continually ;  we  never  changed,  that  is  to  say,  so 
as  to  leave  off  our  Armenian  garbs;  and  we  were  called,  at 
Venice,  the  two  Grecians. 

I  had  been  two  or  three  times  going  to  give  a  detail  of  our 
wealth,  but  it  will  appear  incredible,  and  we  had  the  greatest 


234 


DANIEL   DEFOE 


difficulty  in  the  world  how  to  conceal  it,  being  justly  apprehensive 
lest  we  might  be  assassinated  in  that  country  for  our  treasure. 
At  length  WiUiam  told  me  he  began  to  think  now  that  he  must 
never  see  England  any  more,  and  that  indeed  he  did  not  much 
concern  himself  about  it ;  but  seeing  we  had  gained  so  great 
wealth,  and  he  had  some  poor  relations  in  England,  if  I  was  willing, 
he  would  write  to  know  if  they  were  living,  and  to  know  what 
condition  they  were  in,  and  if  he  found  such  of  them  were  alive  as 
he  had  some  thoughts  about,  he  would,  with  my  consent,  send 
them  something  to  better  their  condition. 

I  consented  most  willingly ;  and  accordingly  William  wrote 
to  a  sister  and  an  uncle,  and  in  about  five  weeks'  time  received 
an  answer  from  them  both,  directed  to  himself,  under  cover  of  a 
hard  Armenian  name  that  he  had  given  himself,  viz.,  Signore 
Constantine  Alexion  of  Ispahan,  at  Venice. 

It  was  a  very  moving  letter  he  received  from  his  sister,  who, 
after  the  most  passionate  expressions  of  joy  to  hear  he  was  alive, 
seeing  she  had  long  ago  had  an  account  that  he  was  murdered 
by  the  pirates  in  the  West  Indies,  entreats  him  to  let  her  know 
what  circumstances  he  was  in  ;  tells  him  she  was  not  in  any  capa- 
city to  do  anything  considerable  for  him,  but  that  he  should  be 
welcome  to  her  with  all  her  heart;  that  she  was  left  a  widow, 
with  four  children,  but  kept  a  little  shop  in  the  Minories,  by  which 
she  made  shift  to  maintain  her  family ;  and  that  she  had  sent 
him  five  pounds,  lest  he  should  want  money,  in  a  strange  country, 
to  bring  him  home. 

I  could  see  the  letter  brought  tears  out  of  his  eyes  as  he  read 
it ;  and,  indeed,  when  he  showed  it  to  me,  and  the  little  bill  for 
five  pounds,  upon  an  Enghsh  merchant  in  Venice,  it  brought 
tears  out  of  my  eyes  too. 

After  we  had  been  both  affected  sufficiently  with  the  tenderness 
and  kindness  of  this  letter,  he  turns  to  me  ;  says  he,  "What  shall  I 
do  for  this  poor  woman?"  I  mused  a  while;  at  last  says  I, 
*'I  will  tell  you  what  you  shall  do  for  her.  She  has  sent  you  five 
pounds,  and  she  has  four  children,  and  herself,  that  is  five ; 
such  a  sum,  from  a  poor  woman  in  her  circumstances,  is  as  much 
as  five  thousand  pounds  is  to  us;  you  shall  send  her  a  bill  of  ex- 
change for  five  thousand  pounds  English  money,  and  bid  her  con- 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    235 

ceal  her  surprise  at  it  till  she  hears  from  you  again ;  but  bid  her 
leave  off  her  shop,  and  go  and  take  a  house  somewhere  in  the 
country,  not  far  off  from  London,  and  stay  there,  in  a  moderate 
figure,  till  she  hears  from  you  again." 

"Now,"  says  William,  "I  perceive  by  it  that  you  have  some 
thoughts  of  venturing  into  England." 

"Indeed,  William,"  said  I,  "you  mistake  me ;  but  it  presently 
occurred  to  me  that  you  should  venture,  for  what  have  you  done 
that  you  may  not  be  seen  there  ?  Why  should  I  desire  to  keep 
you  from  your  relations,  purely  to  keep  me  company  ?" 

William  looked  very  affectionately  upon  me.  "Nay,"  says 
he,  "we  have  embarked  together  so  long,  and  come  together  so 
far,  I  am  resolved  I  will  never  part  with  thee  as  long  as  I  Hve, 
go  where  thou  wilt,  or  stay  where  thou  wilt ;  and  as  for  my  sister," 
said  William,  "  I  cannot  send  h6r  such  a  sum  of  money,  for  whose 
is  all  this  money  we  have  ?     It  is  most  of  it  thine." 

"No,  William,"  said  I,  "there  is  not  a  penny  of  it  mine  but 
what  is  yours  too,  and  I  won't  have  anything  but  an  equal  share 
with  you,  and  therefore  you  shall  send  it  to  her ;  if  not,  I  will 
send  it." 

"Why,"  says  William,  "it  will  make  the  poor  woman  dis- 
tracted ;   she  will  be  so  surprised  she  will  go  out  of  her  wits." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "William,  you  may  do  it  prudently;  send  her 
a  bill  b-'^cked  of  a  hundred  pounds,  and  bid  her  expect  more  in  a 
post  or  two,  and  that  you  will  send  her  enough  to  live  on  without 
keeping  shop,  and  then  send  her  more." 

Accordingly  William  sent  her  a  very  kind  letter,  with  a  bill 
upon  a  merchant  in  London  for  a  hundred  and  sixty  pounds,  and 
bid  her  comfort  herself  with  the  hope  that  he  should  be  able  in 
a  little  time  to  send  her  more.  About  ten  days  after,  he  sent 
her  another  bill  of  five  hundred  and  forty  pounds ;  and  a  post 
or  two  after,  another  for  three  hundred  pounds,  making  in 
all  a  thousand  pounds ;  and  told  her  he  would  send  her 
sufficient  to  leave  off  her  shop,  and  directed  her  to  take  a 
house  as  above. 

He  waited  then  till  he  received  an  answer  to  all  the  three  letters, 
with  an  account  that  she  had  received  the  money,  and,  which  I 
did  not  expect,  that  she  had  not  let  any  other  acquaintance  know 


236  DANIEL    DEFOE 

that  she  had  received  a  shilling  from  anybody,  or  so  much  as 
that  he  was  alive,  and  would  not  till  she  had  heard  again. 

When  he  showed  me  this  letter,  "Well,  WilUam,"  said  I,  "this 
woman  is  fit  to  be  trusted  with  life  or  anything ;  send  her  the 
rest  of  the  five  thousand  pounds,  and  I'll  venture  to  England  with 
you,  to  this  woman's  house,  whenever  you  will." 

In  a  word,  we  sent  her  five  thousand  pounds  in  good  bills ;  and 
she  received  them  very  punctually,  and  in  a  little  time  sent  her 
brother  word  that  she  had  pretended  to  her  uncle  that  she  was 
sickly  and  could  not  carry  on  the  trade  any  longer,  and  that  she 
had  taken  a  large  house  about  four  miles  from  London,  under 
pretence  of  letting  lodgings  for  her  livelihood ;  and,  in  short, 
intimated  as  if  she  understood  that  he  intended  to  come  over  to 
be  incognito,  assuring  him  he  should  be  as  retired  as  he  pleased. 

This  was  opening  the  very  door  for  us  that  we  thought  had 
been  effectually  shut  for  this  life ;  and,  in  a  word,  we  resolved 
to  venture,  but  to  keep  ourselves  entirely  concealed,  both  as  to 
name  and  every  other  circumstance ;  and  accordingly  William 
sent  his  sister  word  how  kindly  he  took  her  prudent  steps,  and 
that  she  had  guessed  right  that  he  desired  to  be  retired,  and  that 
he  obHged  her  not  to  increase  her  figure,  but  live  private,  till  she 
might  perhaps  see  him. 

He  was  going  to  send  the  letter  away.  "  Come,  William,"  said 
I,  "you  shan't  send  her  an  empty  letter;  tell  her  you  have  a 
friend  coming  with  you  that  -must  be  as  retired  as  yourself,  and 
I'll  send  her  five  thousand  pounds  more." 

So,  in  short,  we  made  this  poor  woman's  family  rich ;  and  yet, 
when  it  came  to  the  point,  my  heart  failed  me,  and  I  durst  not 
venture ;  and  for  William,  he  would  not  stir  without  me ;  and 
so  we  stayed  about  two  years  after  this,  considering  what  we 
should  do. 

You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  I  was  very  prodigal  of  my  ill- 
gotten  goods,  thus  to  load  a  stranger  with  my  bounty,  and  give 
a  gift  like  a  prince  to  one  that  had  been  able  to  merit  nothing  of 
me,  or  indeed  know  me  ;  but  my  condition  ought  to  be  considered 
in  this  case ;  though  I  had  money  to  profusion,  yet  I  was  per- 
fectly destitute  of  a  friend  in  the  world,  to  have  the  least  obli- 
gation or  assistance  from,  or  knew  not  either  where  to  dispose 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    237 

or  trust  anything  I  had  while  I  lived,  or  whom  to  give  it  to 
if  I  died. 

When  I  had  reflected  upon  the  manner  of  my  getting  of  it,  I 
was  sometimes  for  giving  it  all  to  charitable  uses,  as  a  debt  due 
to  mankind,  though  I  was  no  Roman  Cathohc,  and  not  at  all 
of  the  opinion  that  it  would  purchase  me  any  repose  to  my  soul ; 
but  I  thought,  as  it  was  got  by  a  general  plunder,  and  which  I 
could  make  no  satisfaction  for,  it  was  due  to  the  community, 
and  I  ought  to  distribute  it  for  the  general  good.  But  still  I  was 
at  a  loss  how,  and  where,  and  by  whom  to  settle  this  charity, 
not  daring  to  go  home  to  my  own  country,  lest  some  of  my  com- 
rades, strolled  home,  should  see  and  detect  me,  and  for  the  very 
spoil  of  my  money,  or  the  purchase  of  his  own  pardon,  betray  and 
expose  me  to  an  untimely  end. 

Being  thus  destitute,  I  say,  of  a  friend,  I  pitched  thus  upon 
William's  sister ;  the  kind  step  of  hers  to  her  brother,  whom  she 
thought  to  be  in  distress,  signifying  a  generous  mind  and  a 
charitable  disposition ;  and  having  resolved  to  make  her  the 
object  of  my  first  bounty,  I  did  not  doubt  but  I  should  purchase 
something  of  a  refuge  for  myself,  and  a  kind  of  a  centre,  to  which 
I  should  tend  in  my  future  actions ;  for  really  a  man  that  has  a 
subsistence,  and  no  residence,  no  place  that  has  a  magnetic  in- 
fluence upon  his  affections,  is  in  one  of  the  most  odd,  uneasy 
conditions  in  the  world,  nor  is  it  in  the  power  of  all  his  money  to 
make  it  up  to  him. 

It  was,  as  I  told  you,  two  years  and  upwards  that  we  remained 
at  Venice  and  thereabout,  in  the  greatest  hesitation  imaginable, 
irresolute  and  unfixed  to  the  last  degree.  William's  sister  im- 
portuned us  daily  to  come  to  England,  and  wondered  we  should 
not  dare  to  trust  her,  whom  we  had  to  such  a  degree  obliged  to 
be  faithful ;  and  in  a  manner  lamented  her  being  suspected  by  us. 

At  last  I  began  to  incline;  and  I  said  to  WiHiam,  "Come, 
brother  WilHam,"  said  I  (for  ever  since  our  discourse  at  Bassorah 
I  called  him  brother),  ''if  you  will  agree  to  two  or  three  things 
with  me,  I'll  go  home  to  England  with  aU  my  heart." 

Says  William,  "Let  me  know  what  they  are." 

"Why,  first,"  says  I,  "you  shall  not  disclose  yourself  to  any 
of  your  relations  in  England  but  your  sister  —  no,  not  one ; 


238  DANIEL   DEFOE 

secondly,  we  will  not  shave  off  our  mustachios  or  beards"  (for 
we  had  all  along  worn  our  beards  after  the  Grecian  manner), 
*'nor  leave  off  our  long  vests,  that  we  may  pass  for  Grecians 
and  foreigners ;  thirdly,  that  we  shall  never  speak  English  in 
public  before  anybody,  your  sister  excepted ;  fourthly,  that  we 
will  always  live  together  and  pass  for  brothers." 

William  said  he  would  agree  to  them  all  with  all  his  heart,  but 
that  the  not  speaking  English  would  be  the  hardest,  but  he  would 
do  his  best  for  that  too  ;  so,  in  a  word,  we  agreed  to  go  from  Ven- 
ice to  Naples,  where  we  converted  a  large  sum  of  money  into  bales 
of  silk,  left  a  large  sum  in  a  merchant's  hands  at  Venice,  and 
another  considerable  sum  at  Naples,  and  took  bills  of  exchange 
for  a  great  deal  too ;  and  yet  we  came  with  such  a  cargo  to  Lon- 
don as  few  American  merchants  had  done  for  some  years,  for  we 
loaded  in  two  ships  seventy-three  bales  of  thrown  silk,  besides 
thirteen  bales  of  wrought  silks,  from  the  duchy  of  Milan,  shipped 
at  Genoa,  with  all  which  I  arrived  safely ;  and  some  time  after 
I  married  my  faithful  protectress,  WilHam's  sister,  with  whom  I 
am  much  more  happy  than  I  deserve. 

And  now,  having  so  plainly  told  you  that  I  am  come  to  Eng- 
land, after  I  have  so  boldly  owned  what  life  I  have  led  abroad,  it 
is  time  to  leave  off,  and  say  no  more  for  the  present,  lest  some 
should  be  wiUing  to  inquire  too  nicely  after  your  old  friend 
Captain  Bob. 


THE   HISTORY    OF    CLARISSA   HARLOWE 
SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

VOL.   I.     LETTER   I 

Miss  Anna  Howe  to  Clarissa  Harlowe 

Jan.  lo. 

I  AM  extremely  concerned,  my  dearest  friend,  for  the  disturb- 
ances that  have  happened  in  your  family.  I  know  how  it  must 
hurt  you  to  become  the  subject  of  the  public  talk :  and  yet  upon 
an  occasion  so  generally  known,  it  is  impossible  but  that  whatever 
relates  to  a  young  lady  whose  distinguished  merits  have  made  her 
the  public  care,  should  engage  everybody's  attention.  I  long  to 
have  the  particulars  from  yourself ;  and  of  the  usage  I  am  told 
you  receive  upon  an  accident  you  could  not  help ;  and  in  which, 
as  far  as  I  can  learn,  the  sufferer  was  the  aggressor. 

Mr.  Diggs,  the  surgeon,  whom  I  sent  for  at  the  first  hearing  of 
the  rencounter,  to  inquire,  for  your  sake,  how  your  brother  was, 
told  me,  that  there  was  no  danger  from  the  wound,  if  there  were 
none  from  the  fever ;  which  it  seems  had  been  increased  by  the 
perturbation  of  his  spirits. 

Mr.  Wyerley  drank  tea  with  us  yesterday ;  and  though  he  is 
far  from  being  partial  to  Mr.  Lovelace,  as  it  may  be  well  sup- 
posed, yet  both  he  and  Mr.  Symmes,  blame  your  family  for  the 
treatment  they  gave  him  when  he  went  in  person  to  inquire 
after  your  brother's  health,  and  to  express  his  concern  for  what 
had  happened. 

They  say,  that  Mr.  Lovelace  could  not  avoid  drawing  his 
sword  :  and  that  either  your  brother's  unskilfulness  or  passion  left 
him  from  the  very  first  pass  entirely  in  his  power. 

This,  I  am  told,  was  what  Mr.  Lovelace  said  upon  it ;  retreating 
as  he  spoke  :  "Have  a  care,  Mr.  Harlowe  —  your  violence  puts 
you  out  of  your  defence.  You  give  me  too  much  advantage. 
For  your  sister's  sake,  I  will  pass  by  every  thing :  —  if  —  " 

239 


240  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

But  this  the  more  provoked  his  rashness,  to  lay  himself  open 
to  the  advantage  of  his  adversary  —  who,  after  a  slight  wound 
given  him  in  the  arm,  took  away  his  sword. 

There  are  people  who  love  not  your  brother,  because  of  his 
natural  imperiousness  and  fierce  and  uncontrollable  temper : 
these  say,  that  the  young  gentleman's  passion  was  abated  on 
seeing  his  blood  gush  plentifully  down  his  arm ;  and  that  he 
received  the  generous  offices  of  his  adversary  (who  helped  him  off 
with  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  bound  up  his  arm  ;  till  the  sur- 
geon could  come)  with  such  patience,  as  was  far  from  making  a 
visit  afterwards  from  that  adversary  to  inquire  after  his  health, 
appear  either  insulting  or  improper. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  every  body  pities  you.  So  steady,  so  uni- 
form in  your  conduct :  so  desirous,  as  you  always  said,  of  sliding 
through  life  to  the  end  of  it  unnoted ;  and,  as  I  may  add,  not  wish- 
ing to  be  observed  even  for  your  silent  benevolence ;  sufficiently 
happy  in  the  noble  consciousness  which  attends  it :  rather  useful 
than  glaring,  your  deserved  motto;  though  now  to  your  regret 
pushed  into  blaze,  as  I  may  say  :  and  yet  blamed  at  home  for 
the  faults  of  others  —  how  must  such  a  virtue  suffer  on  every 
hand  !  —  Yet  it  must  be  allowed,  that  your  present  trial  is  but 
proportioned  to  your  prudence. 

As  all  your  friends  without  doors  are  apprehensive  that  some 
other  unhappy  event  may  result  from  so  violent  a  contention,  in 
which  it  seems  the  families  on  both  sides  are  now  engaged,  I  must 
desire  you  to  enable  me,  on  the  authority  of  your  own  informa- 
tion, to  do  you  occasional  justice. 

My  mother,  and  all  of  us,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  talk  of 
nobody  but  you  on  this  occasion,  and  of  the  consequences  which 
may  follow  from  the  resentments  of  a  man  of  Mr.  Lovelace's 
spirit ;  who,  as  he  gives  out,  has  been  treated  with  high  indignity 
by  your  uncles.  My  mother  will  have  it,  that  you  cannot  now, 
with  any  decency,  cither  see  him,  or  correspond  with  him.  She 
is  a  good  deal  prepossessed  by  your  uncle  Antony ;  who  oc- 
casionally calls  upon  us,  as  you  know ;  and  on  this  rencounter, 
has  represented  to  her  the  crime  which  it  would  be  in  a  sister  to 
encourage  a  man  who  is  to  wade  into  her  favour  (this  was  his 
expression)  through  the  blood  of  her  brother. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  241 

Write  to  me  therefore,  my  dear,  the  whole  of  your  story  from 
the  time  that  Mr.  Lovelace  was  first  introduced  into  your  family ; 
and  particularly  an  account  of  all  that  passed  between  him  and 
your  sister ;  about  which  there  are  different  reports ;  some  people 
scrupling  not  to  insinuate  that  the  younger  sister  has  stolen  a 
lover  from  the  elder :  and  pray  write  in  so  full  a  manner  as  may 
satisfy  those  who  know  not  so  much  of  your  affairs  as  I  do.  If 
any  thing  unhappy  should  fall  out  from  the  violence  of  such 
spirits  as  you  have  to  deal  with,  your  account  of  all  things  previ- 
ous to  it  will  be  your  best  justification. 

You  see  what  you  draw  upon  yourself  by  excelling  all  your  sex. 
Every  individual  of  it  who  knows  you,  or  has  heard  of  you,  seems 
to  think  you  answerable  to  her  for  your  conduct  in  points  so  very 
delicate  and  concerning. 

Every  eye,  in  short,  is  upon  you  with  the  expectation  of  an  ex- 
ample. I  wish  to  heaven  you  were  at  liberty  to  pursue  your  own 
methods :  all  would  then,  I  dare  say,  be  easy,  and  honourably 
ended.  But  I  dread  your  directors  and  directresses ;  for  your 
mother,  admirably  well  qualified  as  she  is  to  lead,  must  submit  to 
be  led.  Your  sister  and  brother  will  certainly  put  you  out  of 
your  course. 

But  this  is  a  point  you  will  not  permit  me  to  expatiate  upon : 
pardon  me  therefore,  and  I  have  done.  —  Yet,  why  should  I 
say,  pardon  me  ?  When  your  concerns  are  my  concerns  ?  When 
your  honour  is  my  honour  ?  When  I  love  you,  as  never  woman 
loved  another?  And  when  you  have  allowed  of  that  concern 
and  of  that  love ;  and  have  for  years,  which  in  persons  so  young 
may  be  called  many,  ranked  in  the  first  class  of  your  friends, 
Your  ever  grateful  and  affectionate, 

Anna  Howe. 

Will  you  oblige  me  with  a  copy  of  the  preamble  to  the  clauses 
in  your  grandfather's  will  in  your  favour ;  and  allow  me  to  send 
it  to  my  aunt  Harman  ?  —  She  is  very  desirous  to  see  it.  Yet 
your  character  has  so  charmed  her,  that,  though  a  stranger  to 
you  personally,  she  assents  to  the  preference  given  you  in  that 
will,  before  she  knows  the  testator's  reasons  for  giving  you  that 
preference. 


242  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

LETTER   VII 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 

[After  her  return  from  her}] 

Harlowe  Place,  Feb.  20. 

I  BEG  your  excuse  for  not  writing  sooner  !  Alas-,  my  dear,  I 
have  sad  prospects  before  me  !  My  brother  and  sister  have 
succeeded  in  all  their  views.  They  have  found  out  another 
lover  for  me ;  an  hideous  one  !  —  Yet  he  is  encouraged  by  every 
body.  No  wonder  that  I  was  ordered  home  so  suddenly.  It 
was  for  fear,  as  I  have  been  informed  [an  unworthy  fear  !]  that 
I  should  have  entered  into  any  concert  with  Mr.  Lovelace,  had 
I  known  their  motive  for  commanding  me  home  ;  apprehending, 
'tis  evident,  that  I  should  dislike  the  man  they  had  to  propose 
to  me. 

And  well  might  they  apprehend  so :  —  for  who  do  you  think 
he  is  ?  —  No  other  than  that  Solmes!  —  Could  you  have  believed 
it  ?  —  And  they  are  all  determined  too ;  my  mother  with  the 
rest !  —  Dear,  dear  excellence  !  how  could  she  be  thus  brought 
over,  when  I  am  assured,  that  on  his  first  being  proposed  she 
was  pleased  to  say.  That  had  Mr.  Solmes  the  Indies  in  possession, 
and  would  endow  me  with  them,  she  would  not  think  him 
deserving  of  her  Clarissa  ! 

The  reception  I  met  with  at  my  return,  so  different  from  what 
I  used  to  meet  with  on  every  little  absence,  (and  now  I  had  been 
from  them  three  weeks)  convinced  me  that  I  was  to  suffer  for 
the  happiness  I  had  had  in  your  company  and  conversation,  for 
that  most  agreeable  period.     I  will  give  you  an  account  of  it. 

My  brother  met  me  at  the  door,  and  gave  me  his  hand  when 
I  stepped  out  of  the  chariot.  He  bowed  very  low  :  "  Pray,  Miss, 
favour  me"  —  I  thought  it  in  good  humour ;  but  found  it  after- 
wards mock  respect :  and  so  he  led  me  in  great  form,  I  prattling 
all  the  way,  inquiring  of  every  body's  health,  (although  I  was  so 
soon  to  see  them,  and  there  was  hardly  time  for  answers)  into 
the  great  parlour  ;  where  were  my  father,  mother,  my  two  uncles, 
and  sister. 

'  Author's  note. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  243 

I  was  struck  to  the  heart  as  soon  as  I  entered,  to  see  a  solem- 
nity. They  all  kept  their  seats.  I  ran  to  my  father,  and 
kneeled  :  then  to  my  mother  :  and  met  from  both  a  cold  salute  : 
from  my  father  a  blessing  but  half  pronounced :  my  mother 
indeed  called  me  child ;  but  embraced  me  not  with  her  usual 
indulgent  ardour. 

After  I  had  paid  my  duty  to  my  uncles,  and  my  compliments  to 
my  sister,  which  she  received  with  solemn  and  stiff  form,  I  was 
bid  to  sit  down.  But  my  heart  was  full :  and  I  said  it  became 
me  to  stand,  if  I  could  stand,  upon  a  reception  so  awful  and  un- 
usual. I  was  forced  to  turn  my  face  from  them,  and  pull  out 
my  handkerchief. 

My  unbrotherly  accuser  hereupon  stood  forth,  and  charged 
me  with  having  received  no  less  than  five  or  six  visits  at  Miss 
Howe's  from  the  man  they  had  all  so  much  reason  to  hate  [that 
was  the  expression ;]  notwithstanding  the  commands  I  had  had 
to  the  contrary.     And  he  bid  me  deny  it,  if  I  could. 

I  had  never  been  used,  I  said,  to  deny  the  truth,  nor  would  I 
now.  I  owned  I  had  in  the  three  weeks  past  seen  the  person  I 
presumed  he  meant,  oftener  than  five  or  six  times.  [Pray  hear 
me,  brother,  said  I,  for  he  was  going  to  flame  out.]  But  he 
always  asked  for  Mrs.  or  Miss  Howe,  when  he  came. 

You  see,  my  dear,  I  made  not  the  pleas  I  might  have  made. 

My  brother  seemed  ready  to  give  a  loose  to  his  passion :  my 
father  put  on  the  countenance  which  always  portends  a  gathering 
storm :  my  uncles  mutteringly  whispered :  and  my  sister  ag- 
gravatingly  held  up  her  hands.  While  I  begged  to  be  heard  out ; 
—  and  my  mother  said,  ''Let  the  child,"  that  was  her  kind  word, 
"be  heard." 

******* 

And  my  uncle  Antony,  in  his  rougher  manner,  added,  that 
surely  I  would  not  give  them  reason  to  apprehend,  that  I  thought 
my  grandfather's  favour '  to  me  had  made  me  independent  of 
them  all.  —  If  I  did,  he  would  tell  me,  the  will  could  be  set  aside, 
and  should. 

I  did  not  know,  I  said,  that  I  had  given  occasion  for  this  harsh- 

1  Her  grandfather,  as  an  inducement  to  her  to  make  him  frequent  visits,  had  fitted  up 
a  dairy  house  for  her  on  his  own  estate. 


244  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

ness.  I  hoped  I  should  always  have  a  just  sense  of  every  one's 
favour  to  me,  superadded  to  the  duty  I  owed  as  a  daughter  and  a 
niece :  but  that  I  was  so  much  surprised  at  a  reception  so  unusual 
and  unexpected,  that  I  hoped  my  papa  and  mamma  would  give 
me  leave  to  retire,  in  order  to  recollect  myself. 

No  one  gainsaying,  I  made  my  silent  compliments,  and  with- 
drew ;  —  leaving  my  brother  and  sister,  as  I  thought,  pleased ; 
and  as  if  they  wanted  to  congratulate  each  other  on  having 
occasioned  so  severe  a  beginning  to  be  made  with  me. 

I  went  up  to  my  chamber,  and  there  with  my  faithful  Hannah 
deplored  the  determined  face  which  the  new  proposal,  it  was 
plain  they  had  to  make  me,  wore. 

I  had  not  recovered  myself  when  I  was  sent  for  down  to  tea. 
I  begged  by  my  maid  to  be  excused  attending ;  but  on  the  re- 
peated command,  went  down  with  as  much  cheerfulness  as  I 
could  assume. 

Mr.  Solmes  came  in  before  we  had  done  tea.  My  uncle  Antony 
presented  him  to  me,  as  a  gentleman  he  had  a  particular  friend- 
ship for.  My  uncle  Harlowe  in  terms  equally  favourable  for 
him.  My  father  said,  Mr.  Solmes  is  my  friend,  Clarissa  Harlowe. 
My  mother  looked  at  him,  and  looked  at  me,  now  and  then,  as 
he  sat  near  me,  I  thought  with  concern.  —  I  at  her,  with  eyes 
appeaHng  for  pity.  At  him,  when  I  could  glance  at  him,  with 
disgust  httle  short  of  affrightment.  While  my  brother  and  sister 
Mr.  Solmes' 6.  him,  and  sir'd  him  up,  at  every  word.  So  caressed, 
in  short,  by  all ;  —  yet  such  a  wretch  !  —  But  I  will  at  present 
only  add,  my  humble  thanks  and  duty  to  your  honoured  mother 
(to  whom  I  will  particularly  write,  to  express  the  grateful  sense 
I  have  of  her  goodness  to  me)  ;  and  that  I  am 

Your  ever  obliged 

Cl.  Harlowe. 

letter  viii 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 

Feb.  24. 

They  drive  on  here  at  a  furious  rate.  The  man  lives  here, 
I  think.  He  courts  them,  and  is  more  and  more  a  favourite. 
Such  terms  !  such  settlements  !     That's  the  cry. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  245 

Hitherto,  I  seem  to  be  delivered  over  to  my  brother,  who  pre- 
tends as  great  love  to  me  as  ever. 

My  father  and  mother  industriously  avoid  giving  me  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  them  alone. 

I  have  already  stood  the  shock  of  three  of  this  man's  particular 
visits,  besides  my  share  in  his  more  general  ones ;  and  find  it  is 
impossible  I  should  ever  endure  him.  He  has  but  a  very  ordi- 
nary share  of  understanding;  is  very  illiterate  ;  knows  nothing  but 
the  value  of  estates,  and  how  to  improve  them,  and  what  belongs 
to  land-jobbing  and  husbandry.  Yet  am  I  as  one  stupid,  I  think. 
They  have  begun  so  cruelly  with  me,  that  I  have  not  spirit  enough 
to  assert  my  own  negative. 


Meantime  it  has  been  signified  to  me,  that  it  will  be  acceptable 
if  I  do  not  think  of  going  to  church  next  Sunday. 

The  same  signification  was  made  me  for  last  Sunday ;  and  I 
obeyed.  They  are  apprehensive  that  Mr.  Lovelace  will  be  there 
with  design  to  come  home  with  me. 

Help  me,  dear  Miss  Howe,  to  a  little  of  your  charming  spirit : 
I  never  more  wanted  it. 


Feb.  25,  in  the  evening. 

What  my  brother  and  sister  have  said  against  me  I  cannot 
tell :  —  but  I  am  in  heavy  disgrace  with  my  father. 

I  was  sent  for  down  to  tea.  I  went  with  a  very  cheerful 
aspect :   but  had  occasion  soon  to  change  it. 

Such  a  solemnity  in  every  body's  countenance  !  My  mother's 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  tea-cups ;  and  when  she  looked  up,  it 
was  heavily,  as  if  her  eyelids  had  weights  upon  them ;  and  then 
not  to  me.  My  father  sat  half-aside  in  his  elbow-chair,  that  his 
head  might  be  turned  from  me,  his  hands  clasped,  and  waving, 
as  it  were,  up  and  down ;  his  lingers,  poor  dear  gentleman  !  in 
motion,  as  if  angry  to  the  very  ends  of  them.  My  sister  sat 
swelhng.  My  brother  looked  at  me  with  scorn,  having  measured 
me,  as  I  may  say,  with  his  eyes  as  I  entered,  from  head  to  foot. 
My  aunt  was  there,  and  looked  upon  me  as  if  with  kindness  re- 


246  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

strained,  bending  coldly  to  my  compliment  to  her  as  she  sat; 
and  then  cast  an  eye  first  on  my  brother,  then  on  my  sister,  as  if 
to  give  the  reason  [so  I  am  willing  to  construe  it]  of  her  unusual 
stiffness :  —  Bless  me,  my  dear  !  that  they  should  choose  to 
intimidate  rather  than  invite  a  mind,  till  now,  not  thought  either 
unpersuadable  or  ungenerous  ! 

I  took  my  seat.  Shall  I  make  tea,  madam,  to  my  mother  ?  — 
I  always  used,  you  know,  my  dear,  to  make  tea. 

No  !  a  very  short  sentence,  in  one  very  short  word,  was 
the  expressive  answer.  And  she  took  the  canister  in  her 
own  hand. 

My  brother  bid  the  footman  who  attended  leave  the  room ;  I, 
said  he,  will  give  the  water. 

My  heart  was  in  agitation,  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
myself.     What  is  to  follow?  thought  I. 

Just  after  the  second  dish,  out  stept  my  mother  —  A  word 
with  you,  sister  Hervey  !  taking  her  hand.  Presently  my  sister 
dropt  away.  Then  my  brother.  And  I  was  left  alone  with  my 
father. 

He  looked  so  very  sternly,  that  my  heart  failed  me  as  twice  or 
thrice  I  would  have  addressed  myself  to  him  :  nothing  but  solemn 
silence  on  all  sides  having  passed  before. 

At  last,  I  asked.  If  it  were  his  pleasure  that  I  should  pour  him 
out  another  dish. 

He  answered  me  with  the  same  angry  monosyllable,  which  I 
had  received  from  my  mother  before  ;  and  then  arose,  and  walked 
about  the  room.  I  arose  too,  with  intent  to  throw  myself  at 
his  feet ;  but  was  too  much  overawed  by  his  sternness,  even 
to  make  such  an  expression  of  my  duty  to  him  as  my  heart  over- 
flowed with. 

At  last,  as  he  supported  himself,  because  of  his  gout,  on  the 
back  of  a  chair,  I  took  a  Uttle  more  courage ;  and  approaching 
him,  besought  him  to  acquaint  me  in  what  I  had  ofTended  him. 

He  turncfl  from  me,  and  in  a  strong  voice,  Clarissa  Harlowe, 
said  he,  know  that  I  will  be  obeyed. 

God  forbid,  sir,  that  you  should  not !  —  I  have  never  yet  op- 
posed your  will  — 

Nor  I  your  whimsies,   Clarissa   Harlowe,   interrupted  he.  — 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  247 

Don't  let  me  run  the  fate  of  all  who  shew  indulgence  to  your  sex  ; 
to  be  the  more  contradicted  for  mine  to  you. 

My  father,  you  know,  my  dear,  has  not  (any  more  than  my 
brother)  a  kind  opinion  of  our  sex  ;  although  there  is  not  a  more 
condescending  wife  in  the  world  than  my  mother. 

I  was  going  to  make  protestations  of  duty  —  No  protestations, 
girl  !  No  words  !  I  will  not  be  prated  to  !  I  will  be  obeyed  ! 
I  have  no  child,  I  will  have  no  child,  but  an  obedient  one. 

Sir,  you  never  had  reason,  I  hope  — 

Tell  me  not  what  I  never  had,  but  what  I  have,  and  what  I 
shall  have. 

Good  sir,  be  pleased  to  hear  me  —  My  brother  and  my  sister, 
I  fear  — 

Your  brother  and  sister  shall  not  be  spoken  against,  girl  !  — • 
They  have  a  just  concern  for  the  honour  of  my  family. 

And  I  hope,  sir  — 

Hope  nothing.  —  Tell  me  not  of  hopes,  but  of  facts.  I  ask 
nothing  of  you  but  what  is  in  your  power  to  comply  with,  and 
what  it  is  your  duty  to  comply  with. 

Then,  sir,  I  will  comply  with  it  —  But  yet  I  hope  from  your 
goodness  — ■ 

No  expostulations  !  no  huts,  girl !  no  qualifyings  !  I  will  be 
obeyed,  I  tell  you ;  and  cheerfully  too  !  —  or  you  are  no  child  of 
mine  ! 

I  wept. 

Let  me  beseech  you,  my  dear  and  ever-honoured  papa  (and  I 
dropt  down  on  my  knees)  that  I  may  have  only  yours  and  my 
mamma's  will,  and  not  my  brother's,  to  obey. 

I  was  going  on ;  but  he  was  pleased  to  withdraw,  leaving  me 
on  the  floor ;  saying,  that  he  would  not  hear  me  thus  by  subtilty 
and  cunning  aiming,  to  distinguish  away  my  duty;  repeating, 
that  he  would  be  obeyed. 

My  heart  is  too  full  !  —  so  full,  that  it  may  endanger  my  duty, 
were  I  to  try  to  unburden  it  to  you  on  this  occasion  :  so  I  will  lay 
down  my  pen.  —  But  can  —  Yet,  positively,  I  will  lay  down  my 
pen  ! 


248  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

LETTER  XXXI 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Monday,  March  13. 

In  vain  dost  thou  ^  and  thy  compeers  press  me  to  go  to  town, 
while  I  am  in  such  an  uncertainty  as  I  am  in  at  present  with  this 
proud  beauty.  All  the  ground  I  have  hitherto  gained  with  her, 
is  entirely  owing  to  her  concern  for  the  safety  of  people  whom  I 
have  reason  to  hate. 

Write  then,  thou  biddest  me,  if  I  will  not  come  :  that,  indeed,  I 
can  do  ;  and  as  well  without  a  subject  as  with  one.  And  what 
follows  shall  be  a  proof  of  it. 

The  lady's  malevolent  brother  has  now,  as  I  told  thee  at  M. 
Hall,  introduced  another  man ;  the  most  unpromising  in  his 
person  and  qualities,  the  most  formidable  in  his  offers  that  has 
yet  appeared. 

This  man  has  by  his  proposals  captivated  every  soul  of  the 
Harlowes  — Soul!  did  I  say  — There  is  not  a  soul  among  them 
but  my  charmer's :  and  she,  withstanding  them  all,  is  actually 
confined,  and  otherwise  maltreated  by  a  father  the  most  gloomy 
and  positive ;  at  the  instigation  of  a  brother  the  most  arrogant 
and  selfish  —  But  thou  knowest  their  characters ;  and  I  will  not 
therefore  sully  my  paper  with  them. 

But  is  it  not  a  confounded  thing  to  be  in  love  with  one,  who  is 
the  daughter,  the  sister,  the  niece,  of  a  family  I  must  eternally 
despise  ?  And,  the  devil  of  it,  that  love  increasing  with  her  — 
what  shall  I  call  it  ?  —  'Tis  not  scorn  :  —  'tis  not  pride ;  — ^'tis 
not  the  insolence  of  an  adored  beauty :  —  but  'tis  to  virtue,  it 
seems,  that  my  difficulties  are  owing ;  and  I  pay  for  not  being 
a  sly  sinner,  an  hypocrite  ;  for  being  regardless  of  my  reputation  ; 
for  permitting  slander  to  open  its  mouth  against  me.  But  is  it 
necessary  for  such  a  one  as  I,  who  have  been  used  to  carry  all 
before  me,  upon  my  own  terms  —  I,  who  never  inspired  a  fear, 
that  had  not  a  discernibly  predominant  mixture  of  love  in  it ; 
to  be  an  hypocrite  ? 

>  These  gentlemen  affected  what  they  called  the  Roman  style  (to  wit,  the  thee  and  the  thou) 
in  their  letters :  and  it  was  an  agreed  rule  with  them,  to  take  in  good  part  whatever  freedoms 
they  treated  each  other  with,  if  the  passages  were  written  in  that  style.     [Author's  note.] 


THE  HISTORY  OF  CLARISSA  HARLOWE  249 

Well,  but  it  seems  I  must  practise  for  this  art,  if  I  would  suc- 
ceed with  this  truly  admirable  creature;  but  why  practise  for 
it  ?  —  Cannot  I  indeed  reform  ?  —  I  have  but  one  vice ;  —  have 
I,  Jack  ?  —  Thou  knowest  my  heart,  if  any  man  hving  does.  As 
far  as  I  know  it  myself,  thou  knowest  it.  But  'tis  a  cursed 
deceiver;  for  it  has  many  and  many  a  time  imposed  upon  its 
master  —  Master,  did  I  say  ?  That  am  I  not  now ;  nor  have  I 
been  from  the  moment  I  beheld  this  angel  of  a  woman.  Pre- 
pared indeed  as  I  was  by  her  character  before  I  saw  her :  for 
what  a  mind  must  that  be,  which  though  not  virtuous  itself, 
admires  not  virtue  in  another?  —  My  visit ^to  Arabella,  owing 
to  a  mistake  of  the  sisters,  into  which,  as  thou  hast  heard  me  say, 
I  was  led  by  the  blundering  uncle ;  who  was  to  introduce  me 
(but  lately  come  from  abroad)  to  the  divinity^  as  I  thought ;  but, 
instead  of  her,  carried  me  to  a  mere  mortal.  And  much  difficulty 
had  I,  so  fond  and  so  forward  my  lady  !  to  get  off  without  for- 
feiting all  with  a  family  that  I  intended  should  give  me  a  goddess. 

I  have  boasted  that  I  was  once  in  love  before  :  —  and  indeed  I 
thought  I  was.  It  was  in  my  early  manhood — with  that  quality- 
jilt,  whose  infidelity  I  have  vowed  to  revenge  upon  as  many  of 
the  sex  as  shall  come  into  my  power.  I  believe,  in  different 
climes,  I  have  already  sacrificed  an  hecatomb  to  my  Nemesis, 
in  pursuance  of  this  vow. 

But  now  am  I  indeed  in  love.  I  can  think  of  nothing,  of 
nobody,  but  the  divine  Clarissa  Harlowe  —  Harlowe?  —  How 
that  hated  word  sticks  in  my  throat. 


Dost  thou  think,  that  if  it  were  not  from  the  hope,  that  this 
stupid  family  are  all  combined  to  do  my  work  for  me,  I  would 
bear  their  insults  ?  —  Is  it  possible  to  imagine,  that  I  would  be 
braved  as  I  am  braved,  threatened  as  I  am  threatened,  by  those 
who  are  afraid  to  see  me;  and  by  this  brutal  brother  too,  to 
whom  I  gave  a  life  [a  life,  indeed,  not  worth  my  taking  !] ;  had 
I  not  a  greater  pride  in  knowing,  that  by  means  of  his  very  spy 
upon  me,  I  am  playing  him  off  as  I  please ;  cooling  or  inflaming 
his  violent  passions  as  may  best  suit  my  purposes ;  permitting 
so  much  to  be  revealed  of  my  Hfe  and  actions,  and  intentions, 


250  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

as  may  give  him  such  a  confidence  in  his  double-faced  agent,  as 
shall  enable  me  to  dance  his  employer  upon  my  own  wires  ? 

And  what  my  motive,  dost  thou  ask  ?  No  less  than  this,  that 
my  beloved  shall  find  no  protection  out  of  my  family :  for,  if  I 
know  hers,  fly  she  must,  or  have  the  man  she  hates.  This, 
therefore,  if  I  take  my  measures  right,  and  my  familiar  fail  me 
not,  will  secure  her  mine  in  spite  of  them  all ;  in  spite  of  her  own 
inflexible  heart :  mine,  without  condition ;  without  refomiation 
promises ;  without  the  necessity  of  a  siege  of  years,  perhaps ; 
and  to  be  even  then,  after  wearing  the  guise  of  merit-doubting 
hypocrisy,  at  an  uncertainty,  upon  a  probation  unapproved  of 
—  Then  shall  I  have  all  the  rascals  and  rascalesses  of  the  family 
come  creeping  to  me :  I  prescribing  to  me ;  and  bringing  that 
sordidly  imperious  brother  to  kneel  at  the  footstool  of  my  throne. 

All  my  fear  arises  from  the  little  hold  I  have  in  the  heart  of 
this  charming  frost-piece  :  such  a  constant  glow  upon  her  lovely 
features  :  eyes  so  sparkling :  limbs  so  divinely  turned  :  health 
so  florid  :  youth  so  blooming  :  air  so  animated  —  To  have  an 
heart  so  impenetrable  :  and  /,  the  hitherto  successful  Lovelace, 
the  addresser  —  How  can  it  be  ? 

By  this  incoherent  ramble  thou  wilt  gather,  that  I  am  not 
likely  to  come  up  in  haste  ;  since  I  must  endeavour  first  to  obtain 
some  assurance  from  the  beloved  of  my  soul,  that  I  shall  not  be 
sacrificed  to  such  a  wretch  as  Solmes  !  Woe  be  to  the  fair-one, 
if  ever  she  be  driven  into  my  power  (for  I  despair  of  a  voluntary 
impulse  in  my  favour)  and  I  find  a  difficulty  in  obtaining  this 
security. 

That  her  indifference  to  me  is  not  owing  to  the  superior  liking 
she  has  for  any  other,  is  what  rivets  my  chains :  but  take  care, 
fair-one :  take  care,  O  thou  most  exalted  of  female  minds,  and 
loveliest  of  persons,  how  thou  debasest  thyself  by  encouraging 
such  a  competition  as  thy  sordid  relations  have  set  on  foot  in 
mere  malice  to  me  ! 


Thus,  Jack,  as  thou  desirest,  have  I  written.  —  Written  upon 
something ;  upon  nothing ;  upon  revenge,  which  I  love  ;  upon 
love,  which  I  hate,  heartily  hate,  because  'tis  my  master  :  and  upon 


THE   HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  251 

the  devil  knows  what  besides  :  —  for  looking  back,  I  am  amazed 
at  the  length  of  it.  Thou  mayest  read  it :  /  would  not  for  a 
king's  ransom  —  But  so  as  I  do  hut  write,  thou  sayest  thou  wilt 
be  pleased. 

Be  pleased  then.  I  command  thee  to  be  pleased  :  if  not  for  the 
writer's  or  written  sake,  for  thy  word's  sake.  And  so  in  the 
royal  style  (for  am  I  not  likely  to  be  thy  king  and  thy  emperor 
in  the  great  affair  before  us  ?)  I  bid  thee  very  heartily     Farewell. 

LETTER  LII 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 

Thursday  night,  March  23. 
I  SEND  you  the  boasted  confutation  letter,  just  now  put  into 
my  hands  —  My  brother  and  sister,  my  uncle  Antony  and  Mr. 
Solmes,  are,  I  understand,  exulting  over  the  copy  of  it  below,  as 
an  unanswerable  performance. 

To  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe 

Once  again,  my  inflexible  sister,  I  write  to  you.  It  is  to  let 
you  know,  that  the  pretty  piece  of  art  you  found  out  to  make  me 
the  vehicle  of  your  whining  pathetics  to  your  father  and  mother, 
has  not  had  the  expected  effect. 

I  do  assure  you,  that  your  behaviour  has  not  been  misrep- 
resented —  nor  need  it.  Your  mother,  who  is  solicitous  to  take 
all  opportunities  of  putting  the  most  favourable  constructions 
upon  all  you  do,  has  been  forced,  as  you  well  know,  to  give  you 
up,  upon  full  trial :  no  need  then  of  the  expedient  of  pursuing  your 
needleworks  in  her  sight.  She  cannot  bear  your  whining  pranks  : 
and  it  is  for  her  sake,  that  you  are  not  permitted  to  come  into 
her  presence  —  nor  will  be,  but  upon  her  own  terms. 

You  had  like  to  have  made  a  simpleton  of  your  aunt  Hervey 
yesterday:  she  came  down  from  you,  pleading  in  your  favour; 
but  when  she  was  asked,  what  concession  she  had  brought  you 
to?  she  looked  about  her,  and  knew  not  what  to  answer.  So 
your  mother,  when  surprised  into  the  beginning  of  your  cunning 
address  to  her  and  to  your  father,  under  my  name  (for  I  had 


252  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

begun  to  read  it,  little  suspecting  such  an  ingenious  subterfuge) 
and  would  then  make  me  read  it  through,  wrung  her  hands.  Oh  ! 
her  dear  child,  her  dear  child,  must  not  be  so  compelled  !  —  But 
when  she  was  asked,  whether  she  would  be  willing  to  have  for 
her  son-in-law  the  man  who  bids  defiance  to  her  whole  family ; 
and  who  had  like  to  have  murdered  her  son  ?  And  what  con- 
cessions she  had  gained  from  her  dear  child  to  merit  this  tender- 
ness ?  And  that  for  one  who  had  apparently  deceived  her  in 
assuring  her  that  her  heart  was  free  ?  —  Then  could  she  look 
about  her,  as  her  sister  had  done  before :  then  was  she  again 
brought  to  herself,  and  to  a  resolution  to  assert  her  authority 
[Not  to  transfer  it,  witty  presumer  !]  over  the  rebel  who  of  late 
has  so  ingratefully  struggled  to  throw  it  off. 

You  seem,  child,  to  have  a  high  notion  of  the  matrimonial 
duty ;  and  I'll  warrant,  like  the  rest  of  your  sex  (one  or  two, 
whom  I  have  the  honour  to  know,  excepted)  that  you  will  go  to 
church  to  promise  what  you  will  never  think  of  afterwards. 


I  have  written  a  longer  letter,  than  ever  I  designed  to  write  to 
you,  after  the  insolent  treatment  and  prohibition  you  have  given 
me :  and,  now  I  am  commissioned  to  tell  you,  that  your  friends 
are  as  weary  of  confining  you,  as  you  are  of  being  confined.  And 
therefore  you  must  prepare  yourself  to  go  in  a  very  few  days,  as 
you  have  been  told  before,  to  your  uncle  Antony's ;  who,  not- 
withstanding your  apprehensions,  will  draw  up  his  bridge  when 
he  pleases ;  will  see  what  company  he  pleases  in  his  own  house ; 
nor  will  he  demolish  his  chapel  to  cure  you  of  your  foolish  late 
commenced  antipathy  to  a  place  of  divine  worship.  —  The  more 
foolish,  as,  if  we  intended  to  use  force,  we  could  have  the  cere- 
mony pass  in  your  chamber,  as  well  as  any  where  else. 

Prejudice  against  Mr.  Solmes  has  evidently  blinded  you,  and 
there  is  a  charitable  necessity  to  open  your  eyes  :  since  no  one  but 
you  thinks  the  gentleman  so  contemptible  in  his  person;  nor,  for 
a  plain  country  gentleman,  who  has  too  much  solid  sense  to  ap- 
pear like  a  coxcomb,  justly  blameable  in  his  manners  — ^  And  as 
to  his  temper,  it  is  necessary  you  should  speak  upon  fuller  knowl- 
edge, than  at  present  it  is  plain  you  can  have  of  him. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  253, 

Upon  the  whole,  it  will  not  be  amiss,  that  you  prepare  for  your 
speedy  removal,  as  well  for  the  sake  of  your  own  conveniency,  as 
to  shew  your  readiness,  in  one  point,  at  least,  to  oblige  your 
friends  ;  one  of  whom  you  may,  if  you  please  to  deserve  it,  reckon, 
though  hut  a  brother, 

James  Harlowe. 

P.S.  If  you  are  disposed  to  see  Mr.  Solmes,  and  to  make  some 
excuses  to  him  for  your  past  conduct,  in  order  to  be  able  to  meet 
him  somewhere  else  with  the  less  concern  to  yourself  for  your 
freedoms  with  him ;   he  shall  attend  you  where  you  please. 

If  you  have  a  mind  to  read  the  settlements,  before  they  are 
read  to  you  for  your  signing,  they  shall  be  sent  you  up  —  Who 
knows,  but  they  will  help  you  to  some  fresh  objections  ?  —  Your 
heart  is  free,  you  know  —  It  must  —  For,  did  you  not  tell  your 
mother  it  was  ?     And  will  the  pious  Clarissa  fib  to  her  mamma  ? 

I  desire  no  reply.  The  case  requires  none.  Yet  I  will  ask 
you,  have  you,  miss,  no  more  proposals  to  make  ? 

I  was  so  vexed  when  I  came  to  the  end  of  this  letter  (the  post- 
script to  which,  perhaps,  might  be  written  after  the  others  had 
seen  the  letter)  that  I  took  up  my  pen,  with  an  intent  to  write  to 
my  uncle  Harlowe  about  resuming  my  own  estate,  in  pursuance 
of  your  advice  :  but  my  heart  failed  me  when  I  recollected,  that 
I  had  not  one  friend  to  stand  by  or  support  me  in  my  claim  ;  and 
that  it  would  but  the  more  incense  them,  without  answering  any 
good  end.     O  that  my  cousin  were  but  come  ! 

Is  it  not  a  sad  thing,  beloved  as  I  thought  myself  so  lately  by 
every  one,  that  now  I  have  not  one  person  in  the  world  to  plead 
for  me,  to  stand  by  me,  or  who  would  afford  me  refuge,  were  I 
to  be  under  the  necessity  of  seeking  for  it ! 

I  don't  know  what  to  do,  not  I !  —  God  forgive  me,  but  I  am 
very  impatient  !  I  wish  —  but  I  don't  know  what  to  wish, 
without  a  sin  !  —  Yet  I  wish  it  would  please  God  to  take  me 
to  his  mercy  !  —  I  can  meet  with  none  here  —  What  a  world 
is  this  ? 

But  it  is  time  to  lay  down  my  pen,  since  my  ink  runs  nothing 
but  gall. 


254  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

LETTER  LXXXIII 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 

Friday,  4  o'clock. 

I  AM  really  ill.  I  was  used  to  make  the  best  of  any  little  acci- 
dents that  befel  me,  for  fear  of  making  my  then  affectionate 
friends  uneasy  :  but  now  I  shall  make  the  worst  of  my  indisposi- 
tion, in  hopes  to  obtain  a  suspension  of  the  threatened  evil  of 
Wednesday  next.  And  if  I  do  obtain  it,  will  postpone  my  ap- 
pointment with  Mr.  Lovelace.^ 

Betty  has  told  them  that  I  am  very  much  indisposed.  But  I 
have  no  pity  from  any  body. 

I  believe,  I  am  become  the  object  of  every  one's  aversion,  and 
that  they  would  all  be  glad  I  were  dead.  Indeed,  I  believe  it. 
"What  ails  the  perverse  creature?"  cries  one.  —  "Is  she  love- 
sick?" another. 

I  was  in  the  ivy  summer-house,  and  came  out  shivering  with 
cold,  as  if  aguishly  affected.  Betty  observed  this,  and  reported 
it.  —  "O,  no  matter  !  —  Let  her  shiver  on  !  —  Cold  cannot  hurt 
her.  Obstinacy  will  defend  her  from  harm.  Perverseness  is 
a  bracer  to  a  love-sick  girl,  and  more  effectual  than  the  cold  bath 
to  make  hardy,  although  the  constitution  be  ever  so  tender." 

This  said  by  a  cruel  brother,  and  heard  said  by  the  dearer 
friends  of  one,  for  whom,  but  a  few  months  ago,  every  body  was 
apprehensive  at  the  least  blast  of  wind  to  which  she  exposed 
herself ! 

Betty,  it  must  be  owned,  has  an  admirable  memory  on  these 
occasions.  Nothing  of  this  nature  is  lost  by  her  repetition: 
even  the  very  air  with  which  she  repeats  what  she  hears  said, 
renders  it  unnecessary  to  ask,  who  spoke  this  or  that  severe 
thing. 

Friday,  6  o'clock. 

My  aunt,  who  again  stays  all  night,  has  just  left  me.  She 
came  to  tell  me  the  result  of  my  friends'  deliberations  about  me. 
It  is  this : 

^  In  a  letter  to  Lovelace  she  had  agreed  to  try  to  meet  him  in  the  garden,  in  order  to 
discuss  the  possibility  of  his  aunts'  affording  her  protection. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  CLARISSA  HARLOWE  255 

Next  Wednesday  morning  they  are  all  to  be  assembled :  to 
wit,  my  father,  mother,  my  uncles,  herself,  and  my  uncle  Hervey  ; 
my  brother  and  sister  of  course  :  My  good  Mrs.  Norton  ^  is  like- 
wise to  be  admitted :  and  Dr.  Lewen  is  to  be  at  hand,  to  exhort 
me,  it  seems,  if  there  be  occasion :  but  my  aunt  is  not  certain 
whether  he  is  to  be  among  them,  or  to  tarry  till  called  in. 

When  this  awful  court  is  assembled,  the  poor  prisoner  is  to  be 
brought  in,  supported  by  Mrs.  Norton  ;  who  is  to  be  first  tutored 
to  instruct  me  in  the  duty  of  a  child ;  which  it  seems  I  have  for- 
gotten. 

Nor  is  the  success  at  all  doubted,  my  aunt  says  :  since  it  is  not 
believed  that  I  can  be  hardened  enough  to  withstand  the  expos- 
tulations of  so  venerable  a  judicature,  although  I  have  withstood 
those  of  several  of  them  separately.  And  still  the  less,  as  she 
hints  at  extraordinary  condescensions  from  my  father.  But  what 
condescensions,  from  even  my  father,  can  induce  me  to  make  such 
a  sacrifice  as  is  expected  from  me  ? 

Yet  my  spirits  will  never  bear  up,  I  doubt,  at  such  a  tribunal 
—  my  father  presiding  in  it. 

Indeed  I  expected,  that  my  trials  would  not  be  at  an  end  till 
he  had  admitted  me  into  his  awful  presence. 

What  is  hoped  from  me,  she  says,  is.  That  I  will  cheerfully,  on 
Tuesday  night,  if  not  before,  sign  the  articles :  and  so  turn  the 
succeeding  day's  solemn  convention  into  a  day  of  festivity.  I 
am  to  have  the  licence  sent  me  up,  however,  and  once  more  the 
settlements,  that  I  may  see  how  much  in  earnest  they  are. 

She  further  hinted,  that  my  father  himself  would  bring  up  the 
settlements  for  me  to  sign. 

O  my  dear  !'  what  a  trial  will  this  be  !  —  How  shall  I  be  able 
to  refuse  to  my  father  the  writing  of  my  name  ?  —  To  my  father, 
from  whose  presence  I  have  been  so  long  banished  !  —  He  com- 
manding and  entreating,  perhaps,  in  a  breath  !  —  How  shall  I  be 
able  to  refuse  this  to  my  father  ! 

******* 

1  Mrs.  Norton  had  been  Clarissa's  nurse. 


256  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

letter  lxxxv 
Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 

Sat.  morn.  8  o'clock,  (April  8.) 

Whether  you  will  blame  me  or  not,  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  have 
deposited  a  letter  confirming  my  resolution  to  leave  this  house 
on  Monday  next.  I  have  not  kept  a  copy  of  it.  But  this  is  the 
substance : 

I  tell  him,  "That  I  have  no  way  to  avoid  the  determined  reso- 
lution of  my  friends  in  behalf  of  Mr.  Solmes,  but  by  abandoning 
this  house  by  his  assistance." 

I  have  not  pretended  to  make  a  merit  with  him  on  this  score  ; 
for  I  plainly  tell  him,  "That  could  I,  without  an  unpardonable  sin, 
die  when  I  would,  I  would  sooner  make  death  my  choice,  than 
take  a  step,  which  all  the  world,  if  not  my  own  heart,  will  condemn 
me  for  taking." 

I  tell  him,  "That  I  shall  not  try  to  bring  any  other  clothes  with 
me,  than  those  I  shall  have  on  ;  and  those  but  my  common  wear- 
ing-apparel ;  lest  I  should  be  suspected.  That  I  must  expect  to 
be  denied  the  possession  of  my  estate.  That,  therefore,  he  will 
have  nothing  to  hope  for  from  this  step,  that  he  had  not  before: 
and  that  in  every  light  I  reserve  to  myself  to  accept  or  refuse  his 
address,  as  his  behaviour  and  circumspection  shall  appear  to  me 
to  deserved 

I  tell  him,  "That  I  think  it  best  to  go  into  a  private  lodging,  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Lady  Betty  Lawrence ;  and  not  to  her 
ladyship's  house  ;  that  he  shall  instantly  leave  me,  and  (as  he  had 
promised)  not  come  near  me,  but  by  my  leave. 

"That  if  I  find  myself  in  danger  of  being  discovered,  and 
carried  back  by  violence,  I  will  then  throw  myself  directly  into 
the  protection  either  of  Lady  Betty  or  Lady  Sarah.^ 

"That  I  must,  however,  plainly  tell  him,  that  if  in  this  treaty 
my  friends  insist  upon  my  resolving  against  marrying  him,  I  will 
engage  to  comply  with  them;  provided  they  will  allow  me  to  prom- 
ise him,  that  I  will  never  be  the  wife  of  any  other  man  while  he  re- 
mains single,  or  is  living:   that  this  is  a  compliment  I  am  willing 

^  Relatives  of  Lovelace's,  known  to  Clarissa  only  through  his  reports. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  257 

to  pay  him  in  return  for  the  trouble  and  pains  he  has  taken,  and 
the  usage  he  has  met  with,  on  my  account. 

O  my  dear  Miss  Howe  !  —  what  a  sad,  sad  thing  is  the  neces- 
sity, forced  upon  me,  for  all  this  preparation  and  contrivance  ! 
—  But  it  is  now  too  late  !  —  But  how  ?  —  Too  late,  did  I  say  ?  — 
What  a  word  is  that  I  —  what  a  dreadful  thing,  were  I  to  repent, 
to  find  it  to  be  too  late  to  remedy  the  apprehended  evil ! 

Saturday,  10  o'clock. 

Mr.  Solmes  is  here.  He  is  to  dine  with  his  new  relations,  as 
Betty  tells  me  he  already  calls  them. 

He  would  have  thrown  himself  in  my  way  once  more :  but  I 
hurried  up  to  my  prison,  in  my  return  from  my  garden-walk,  to 
avoid  him. 


Let  me  have  your  prayers,  my  dear ;  and  your  approbation, 
or  your  censure,  of  the  steps  I  have  taken  :  for  yet  it  may  not  be 
quite  too  late  to  revoke  the  appointment.     I  am 

Your  most  affectionate  and  faithful, 
Cl.  Harlowe. 


LETTER   LXXXVIII 
Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 

Sunday  morning,  April  9. 
******* 

I  resolve  then,  upon  the  whole,  to  stand  this  one  trial  of 
Wednesday  next  —  or,  perhaps,  I  should  rather  say,  of  Tuesday 
evening,  if  my  father  hold  his  purpose,  of  endeavouring,  in  person, 
to  make  me  read  or  hear  read,  and  then  sign,  the  settlements.  — 
That,  that  must  be  the  greatest  trial  of  all. 

If  I  am  compelled  to  sign  them  over-night  —  then  (the  lord 
bless  me  !)  must  all  I  dread  follow,  as  of  course,  on  Wednesday. 
If  I  can  prevail  upon  them  by  my  prayers  [perhaps  I  shall  fall 
into  fits  ;  for  the  very  first  appearance  of  my  father,  after  having 


258  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

been  so  long  banished  his  presence,  will  greatly  affect  me  —  if, 
I  say,  I  can  prevail  upon  them  by  my  prayers]  to  lay  aside  their 
views ;  or  to  suspend  the  day,  if  but  for  one  week. ;  if  not,  but  for 
two  or  three  days ;  still  Wednesday  will  be  a  lighter  day  of  trial. 
They  will  surely  give  me  time  to  consider,  to  argue  with  myself. 
This  will  not  be  promising.  As  I  have  made  no  effort  to  get  away, 
they  have  no  reason  to  suspect  me ;  so  I  may  have  an  oppor- 
tunity, in  the  last  resort,  to  withdraw.  Mrs.  Norton  is  to  be 
with  me :  she,  although  she  should  be  chidden  for  it,  will  in  my 
extremity  plead  for  me.  My  aunt  Hervey  may,  in  such  an  ex- 
tremity, join  with  her.  Perhaps  my  mother  may  be  brought 
over.  I  will  kneel  to  each,  one  by  one,  to  make  a  friend.  Some 
of  them  have  been  afraid  to  see  me,  lest  they  should  be  moved 
in  my  favour :  does  not  this  give  me  a  reasonable  hope  that  I 
may  move  them  ?  My  brother's  counsel,  heretofore  given,  to 
turn  me  out  of  doors  to  my  evil  destiny,  may  again  be  repeated, 
and  may  prevail.  Then  shall  I  be  in  no  worse  case  than  now,  as  to 
the  displeasure  of  my  friends ;  and  thus  far  better,  that  it  will  not 
be  my  fault  that  I  seek  another  protection :  which  even  then 
ought  to  be  my  cousin  Morden's  rather  than  Mr.  Lovelace's, 
or  any  other  person's. 

My  heart,  in  short,  misgives  me  less,  when  I  resolve  this  way, 
than  when  I  think  of  the  other ;  and  in  so  strong  and  involuntary 
a  bias,  the  heart  is,  as  I  may  say,  conscience.  And  well  cautions 
the  wise  man:  "Let  the  counsel  of  thine  own  heart  stand;  for 
there  is  no  man  more  faithful  to  thee  than  it :  for  a  man's  mind 
is  sometimes  wont  to  tell  him  more  than  seven  watchmen,  that 
sit  above  in  a  high  tower."  ^ 

Forgive  these  indigested  self -reasonings.  I  will  close  here  : 
and  instantly  set  about  a  letter  of  revocation  to  Mr.  Lovelace ; 
take  it  as  he  will.  It  will  only  be  another  trial  of  temper  to  him. 
To  me  of  infinite  importance.  And  has  he  not  promised  temper 
and  acquiescence,  on  the  supposition  of  a  change  in  my  mind  ? 

1  Ecclus.  xxxvii.  13,  14.     [Author's  note.] 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  259 

LETTER  LXXXIX 
Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 

Sunday  morning,  (April  9.) 

4:  ^  4:  ^  4:  4:  4: 

Nine  o'clock. 
My  cousin  Dolly  Hervey  slid  the  inclosed  letter  into  my  hand, 
as  I  passed  by  her  coming  out  of  the  garden. 

Dearest  Madam, 

I  HAVE  got  intcUigence  from  one  who  pretends  to  know  every 
thing,  that  you  must  be  married  on  Wednesday  morning  to  Mr. 
Solmes.  Perhaps,  however,  she  says  this  only  to  vex  me ;  for 
it  is  that  saucy  creature  Betty  Barnes.  A  licence  is  got  as  she 
says  :  and  so  far  she  went  as  to  tell  me  (bidding  me  say  nothing ; 
but  she  knew  I  would)  that  Mr.  Brand  is  to  marry  you  ;  for  Dr. 
Lewen,  I  hear,  refuses,  unless  your  consent  can  be  obtained  ;  and 
they  have  heard  that  he  does  not  approve  of  their  proceedings 
against  you.  Mr.  Brand,  I  am  told,  is  to  have  his  fortune  made 
by  uncle  Harlowe  and  among  them. 

You  will  know  better  than  I  what  to  make  of  all  these  matters ; 
for  sometimes  I  think  Betty  t-ells  me  things  as  if  I  should  not  tell 
you,  and  yet  expects  that  I  will.^  For  there  is  great  whispering 
between  Miss  Harlowe  and  her ;  and  I  have  observed  that  when 
their  whispering  is  over,  Betty  comes  and  tells  me  something  by 
way  of  secret.  She  and  all  the  world  know  how  much  I  love  you  : 
and  so  I  would  have  them.  It  is  an  honour  to  me  to  love  a  young 
lady  who  is,  and  ever  was,  an  honour  to  all  her  family,  let  them 
say  what  they  will. 

But  from  a  more  certain  authority  than  Betty's  I  can  assure 
you  (but  I  must  beg  of  you  to  burn  this  letter)  that  you  are  to  be 
searched  once  more  for  letters,  and  for  pen  and  ink ;  for  they 
know  you  write.     Something  they  pretend  to  have  come  at  from 

'  It  is  easy  for  such  of  the  readers  as  have  been  attentive  to  Mr.  Lovelace's  manner  of 
working,  to  suppose,  from  this  hint  of  Miss  Hervey's,  that  he  had  instructed  his  double-faced 
agent  to  put  his  sweetheart  Betty  upon  alarming  Miss  Hervey,  in  hopes  she  would  alarm  her 
beloved  cousin  (as  we  see  she  does,)  in  order  to  keep  her  steady  to  her  appointment  with  him. 
[Author's  note.] 


26o  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

one  of  Mr.  Lovelace's  servants,  which  they  hope  to  make  some- 
thing of.  I  know  not  for  certain  what  it  is.  He  must  be  a  very 
vile  and  wicked  man,  who  would  boast  of  a  lady's  favour  to  him, 
and  reveal  secrets.  But  Mr.  Lovelace,  I  dare  say,  is  too  much 
of  a  gentleman  to  be  guilty  of  such  ingratitude. 

Then  they  have  a  notion,  from  that  false  Betty  I  believe,  that 
you  intend  to  take  something  to  make  yourself  sick ;  and  so  they 
will  search  for  phials  and  powders,  and  such  like. 

If  nothing  shall  be  found  that  will  increase  their  suspicions, 
you  are  to  be  used  more  kindly  by  your  papa  when  you  appear 
before  them  all  than  he  of  late  has  used  you. 

Yet,  sick,  or  well,  alas  !  my  dear  cousin  !  you  must  be  married. 
But  your  husband  is  to  go  home  every  night  without  you  till 
you  are  reconciled  to  him.  And  so  illness  can  be  no  pretence 
to  save  you. 

-They  are  sure  you  will  make  a  good  wife.  So  would  not  I, 
unless  I  liked  my  husband.  And  Mr.  Sohnes  is  always  telling 
them  how  he  will  purchase  your  love  by  rich  presents.  — A  syco- 
phant man  !  —  I  wish  he  and  Betty  Barnes  were  to  come  together, 
and  he  would  beat  her  every  day. 

After  what  I  have  told  you,  I  need  not  advise  you  to  secure 
every  thing  you  would  not  have  seen. 

Once  more  let  me  beg  that  you  will  burn  this  letter  :  and  pray, 
dearest  madam,  do  not  take  any  thing  that  may  prejudice  your 
health :    for  that  will  not  do.     I  am 

Your  truly  loving  cousin, 

D.  H. 

LETTER  XCI 
Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 

St.  Alban's,  Tuesday  morn,  past  one. 

0  MY  DEAREST  ERIEND  ! 

After  what  I  had  resolved  upon,  as  by  my  former,  what  shall 

1  write  ?  What  can  I  ?  With  what  consciousness,  even  by 
letter y  do  I  approach  you  ?  —  You  will  soon  hear  (if  already  you 
have  not  heard  from  the  mouth  of  common  fame)  that  your 
Clarissa  Harlowe  is  gone  off  with  a  man  ! 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  261 

0  my  dearest  friend  !  —  But  I  must  make  the  best  of  it.  I 
hope  that  will  not  be  very  bad  !  Yet  am  I  convinced,  that  I  did 
a  rash  and  inexcusable  thing  in  meeting  him  ;  and  all  his  tender- 
ness, all  his  vows,  cannot  pacify  my  inward  reproaches  on  that 
account. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  friend  !  —  I  beseech  you  to  love  me  still  — 
but  alas  !    what  will  your  mother  say  ?  —  What  will  mine  ?  — 

1  cannot  at  present  tell  you  how,  or  where,  you  can  direct  to 
me.  For  very  early  shall  I  leave  this  place ;  harassed  and 
fatigued  to  death.     Once  more  adieu.     Pity  and  pray  for 

Your 

Cl.  Harlowe. 

LETTER  XCII 

Miss  Howe  to  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe 

Tuesday,  9  o'clock. 

I  WRITE,  because  you  enjoin  me  to  do  so.  Love  you  still !  — 
How  can  I  help  it,  if  I  would  ?  You  may  beheve  how  I  stand 
aghast,  your  letter  communicating  the  first  news  —  good  God 
of  heaven  and  earth  !  —  But  what  shall  I  say  ?  —  I  am  all 
impatience  for  particulars. 

Let  me  now  repeat  my  former  advice  —  if  you  are  not  married 
by  this  time,  be  sure  delay  not  the  ceremony.  Since  things  are 
as  they  are,  I  wish  it  were  thought  that  you  were  privately 
married  before  you  went  away. 

I  send  what  you  write  for.     If  there  be  any  thing  else  you  want 
that  is  in  my  power,  command  without  reserve 
Your  ever  affectionate 

Anna  Howe. 

vol.  11.   letter  iii 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Tuesday,  Wed.  Apr.  11,  12. 
You  claim  my  promise,  that  I  will  be  as  particular  as  possible, 
in  all  that  passes  between  me  and  my  goddess. 


262  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

I  told  thee  my  reasons  for  not  going  in  search  of  a  letter  of 
countermand.  I  was  right ;  for  if  I  had,  I  should  have  found 
such  a  one ;  and  had  I  received  it,  she  would  not  have 
met  me. 

The  moment  I  heard  the  door  unbolt,  I  was  sure  of  her.  But 
when  that  was  followed  with  the  presence  of  my  charmer,  flash- 
ing upon  me  all  at  once  in  a  flood  of  brightness,  sweetly  dressed, 
though  all  unprepared  for  a  journey,  I  trod  air,  and  hardly 
thought  myself  a  mortal. 

Expect  therefore  a  faint  sketch  of  her  admirable  person  with 
her  dress. 

Her  wax-like  flesh  (for  after  all,  flesh  and  blood  I  think  she  is) 
by  its  delicacy  and  firmness,  answers  for  the  soundness  of  her 
health.  Thou  hast  often  heard  me  launch  out  in  praise  of  her 
complexion.  I  never  in  my  life  beheld  a  skin  so  illustriously  fair. 
The  lily  and  the  driven  snow  it  is  nonsense  to  talk  of :  her  lawn 
and  her  laces  one  might  indeed  compare  to  those  :  but  what  a 
whited  wall  would  a  woman  appear  to  be,  who  had  a  complexion 
which  would  justify  such  unnatural  comparisons?  But  this 
lady  is  all  glowing,  all  charming  flesh  and  blood :  yet  so  clear, 
that  every  meandering  vein  is  to  be  seen. 

Thou  hast  heard  me  also  describe  the  wavy  ringlets  of  her 
shining  hair,  needing  neither  art  nor  powder ;  of  itself  an  orna- 
ment, defying  all  other  ornaments :  wantoning  in  and  about  a 
neck  that  is  beautiful  beyond  description. 

Her  head-dress  was  a  Brussels-lace  cap,  peculiarly  adapted  to 
the  charming  air  and  turn  of  her  features.  A  sky-blue  ribband 
illustrated  that.  But  although  the  weather  was  somewhat 
sharp,  she  had  not  on  either  hat  or  cloakhood ;  for  besides  that 
she  loves  to  use  herself  hardily,  she  seems  to  have  intended  to 
shew  me,  that  she  was  determined  not  to  stand  to  her  appoint- 
ment.    O  Jack  !    that  such  a  sweet  girl  should  be  a  rogue  ! 

Her  gown  was  a  pale  primrose-coloured  paduasoy :  the  cuffs 
and  robings  curiously  embroidered  by  the  fingers  of  this  ever- 
charming  Arachne,  in  a  running  pattern  of  violets  and  their 
leaves ;  the  light  in  the  flowers  silver ;  gold  in  the  leaves.  A 
pair  of  diamond  snaps  in  her  ears. 

Her  ruffles  were  the  same  as  her  cap.     Her  apron  a  flowered 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  263 

lawn.  Her  coat  white  satin,  quilted :  blue  satin  her  shoes, 
braided  with  the  same  colour,  without  lace ;  for  what  need  has 
the  prettiest  foot  in  the  world  of  ornament  ?  neat  buckles  in 
them :  and  on  her  charming  arms  a  pair  of  black,  velvet  glove- 
like muffs  of  her  own  invention  ;  for  she  makes  and  gives  fashions 
as  she  pleases.  —  Her  hands  velvet  of  themselves,  thus  uncovered 
the  freer  to  be  grasped  by  those  of  her  adorer. 

I  have  told  thee  what  were  7ny  transports,  when  the  undrawn 
bolt  presented  to  me  my  long-expected  goddess.  —  Her  emotions 
were  more  sweetly  feminine,  after  the  first  moments ;  for  then 
the  fire  of  her  starry  eyes  began  to  sink  into  a  less  dazzling  lan- 
guor. She  trembled  :  nor  knew  she  how  to  support  the  agita- 
tions of  a  heart  she  had  never  found  so  ungovernable.  She  was 
even  fainting,  when  I  clasped  her  in  my  supporting  arms.  What 
a  precious  moment  that !  How  near,  how  sweetly  near  the 
throbbing  partners  ! 

By  her  dress,  I  saw,  as  I  observed  before,  how  unprepared  she 
was  for  a  journey ;  and  not  doubting  her  intention  once  more  to 
disappoint  me,  I  would  have  drawn  her  after  me.  Then  began 
a  contention  the  most  vehement  that  ever  I  had  with  woman. 
It  would  pain  thy  friendly  heart  to  be  told  the  infinite  trouble 
I  had  with  her.  I  begged,  I  prayed,  on  my  knees,  yet  in  vain, 
I  begged  and  prayed  her  to  answer  her  own  appointment :  and 
had  I  not  happily  provided  for  such  a  struggle,  knowing  whom 
I  had  to  deal  with,  I  had  certainly  failed  in  my  design ;  and 
as  certainly  would  have  accompanied  her  in,  without  thee  and 
thy  brethren :  and  who  knows  what  might  have  been  the 
consequence  ? 

But  my  honest  agent  answering  my  signal,  though  not  quite  so 
soon  as  I  expected,  in  the  manner  thou  knowest  I  had  prescribed, 
They  are  coming  !  they  are  coming  !  —  Fly,  fly,  my  beloved 
creature,  cried  I,  drawing  my  sword  with  a  flourish,  as  if  I  would 
have  slain  half  an  hundred  of  the  supposed  intruders :  and,  seiz- 
ing her  trembling  hands,  I  drew  her  after  me  so  swiftly,  that  my 
feet,  winged  by  love,  could  hardly  keep  pace  with  her  feet,  agi- 
tated by  fear.  —  And  so  I  became  her  emperor. 

I'll  tell  thee  all,  when  I  see  thee :  and  thou  shalt  then  judge 
of  my  difficulties,  and  of  her  perverseness.     And  thou  wilt  rejoice 


264  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

with  me  at  my  conquest  over  such  a  watchful  and  open-eyed 
charmer. 

But  seest  thou  not  now  (as  I  think  I  do)  the  wind-outstripping 
fair  one  fl>'ing  from  her  love  to  her  love  ?  Is  there  not  such  a 
game  ?  —  Nay,  flying  from  friends  she  was  resolved  not  to 
abandon,  to  the  man  she  was  determined  not  to  go  off  with  ?  — 
The  sex!  the  sex,  all  over  I  —  Charming  contradiction  I  —  Hah, 
hah,  hah,  hah  !  —  I  must  here  —  I  must  here,  lay  down  my  pen, 
to  hold  my  sides :  for  I  must  have  my  laugh  out  now  the  fit  is 
upon  me. 

****** 


LETTER  LEX 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  ]Miss  Howe 

Wednesday  afternoon,  April  26. 

At  length,  my  dearest  Miss  Howe,  I  am  in  London,  and  in 
my  new  lodgings.  They  are  neatly  furnished,  and  the  situation, 
for  the  town,  is  pleasant. 

But,  I  think  you  must  not  ask  me,  how  I  like  the  old  gentle- 
woman. Yet  she  seems  courteous  and  obhging.  Her  kins- 
women just  appeared  to  welcome  me  at  my  aUghting.  They 
seem  to  be  genteel  young  women.  But  more  of  their  aunt  and 
of  them,  as  I  shall  see  more. 


Here  I  was  broke  in  upon  by  ]\Ir.  Lovelace ;  introducing  the 
widow  leading  in  a  kinswoman  of  hers  to  attend  me,  if  I  approved 
of  her,  till  my  Hannah  should  come,  or  till  I  had  provided  myself 
with  some  other  servant.  The  widow  gave  her  many  good 
quahties ;  but  said,  that  she  had  one  great  defect ;  which  was, 
that  she  could  not  write,  nor  read  writing;  that  part  of  her 
education  having  been  neglected  when  she  was  young. 

As  for  her  defect,  I  can  easily  forgive  that.  She  is  very  likely 
and  genteel;  too  genteel  indeed,  I  think,  for  a  servant.  But, 
what  I  like  least  of  all  in  her,  she  has  a  strange  sly  eye.  I  never 
saw  such  an  eye  —  half-confident,  I  think.     But  indeed  Mrs. 


THE   HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  265 

Sinclair  herself  (for  that  is  the  widow's  name,)  has  an  odd  wink- 
ing eye ;  and  her  respectfulness  seems  too  much  studied,  me- 
thinks,  for  the  London  ease  and  freedom.  But  people  can't 
help  their  looks,  you  know ;  and  after  all,  she  is  extremely  civil 
and  obHging.  And  as  for  the  young  woman,  (Dorcas  is  her 
name)  she  will  not  be  long  with  me. 

I  accepted  her:  how  could  I  do  otherwise?  But  upon  their 
lea\dng  me,  I  told  him  (who  seemed  inclinable  to  begin  a  con- 
versation with  me)  that  I  desired  that  this  apartment  might 
be  considered  as  my  retirement :  that  when  I  saw  him  it  might 
be  in  the  dining-room.  He  withdrew  ver>'  respectfully  to  the 
door ;   but  there  stopt. 

I  see  he  has  no  mind  to  leave  me,  if  he  can  help  it. 

My  approbation  of  his  tender  behaviour  in  the  midst  of  my 
grief  has  given  him  a  right,  as  he  seems  to  think,  of  addressing  me 
with  all  the  freedom  of  an  approved  lover. 

While  we  were  talking  at  the  door,  my  new  servant  came  up, 
with  an  invitation  to  us  both  to  tea.  I  said  he  might  accept  of 
it,  if  he  pleased ;  but  I  desired  him  to  make  my  excuses  below, 
and  inform  them  of  my  choice  to  be  retired  as  much  as  possible : 
yet  to  promise  for  me  my  attendance  on  the  widow  and  her 
nieces  at  breakfast  in  the  morning. 

LETTER  XCn 
Miss  Ho"^t:  to  Miss  Clarissa  H.\rlowe 

Thursday,  :May  18. 

I  HA\"E  neither  time  nor  patience,  my  dear  friend,  to  answer 
ever>^  material  article  in  your  last  letters  just  now  received.  Mr. 
Lovelace's  proposals  are  all  I  Hke  of  him.  And  yet  (as  you  do) 
I  think  that  he  concludes  them  not  with  that  warmth  and  ear- 
nestness which  we  might  naturally  have  expected  from  him. 
Never  in  my  Hfe  did  I  hear  or  read  of  so  patient  a  man,  with  such 
a  blessing  in  his  reach. 

He  to  suggest  delay  from  a  compliment  to  be  made  to  Lord  M.^ 
and  to  give  time  for  settlements  !    ZZe,  a  part  of  whose  character 

^  Lovelace's  uncle. 


266  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

it  is,  not  to  know  what  complaisance  to    his  relations  is  —  I 
have  no  patience  with  him  ! 

Would  to  heaven  to-morrow,  without  complimenting  any  body, 
might  be  Ids  happy  day !  —  Villain  !  After  he  had  himself  sug- 
gested the  compliment !  —  And  I  think  he  accuses  you  of  delay- 
ing !  —  Fellow,  that  he  is  —  How  my  heart  is  wrung  !  — 

Yet  once  more,  I  say  I  can  have  no  notion  that  he  can  or  dare 
to  mean  you  dishonour.  But  then  the  man  is  a  fool,  my  dear 
—  that's  all. 

However,  since  you  are  thrown  upon  a  fool,  marry  the  fool, 
at  the  first  opportunity ;  and  though  I  doubt  that  this  man  will 
be  the  most  ungovernable  of  fools,  as  all  witty  and  vain  fools 
are,  take  him  as  a  punishment,  since  you  cannot  as  a  reward : 
in  short,  as  one  given  to  convince  you  that  there  is  nothing  but 
imperfection  in  this  life. 

And  what  is  the  result  of  all  I  have  written,  but  this  ?  Either 
marry,  my  dear,  or  get  from  them  all,  and  from  him  too. 

I  shall  be  impatient  till  I  have  your  next.  I  am,  my  dearest 
friend, 

Your  ever  affectionate  and  faithful 
Anna  Howe. 


LETTER   CV 
Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Monday  morning,  May  22. 

No  generosity  in  this  lady.  None  at  all.  Wouldst  thou  not 
have  thought,  that  after  I  had  permitted  her  to  withdraw, 
primed  for  mischief  as  I  was,  she  would  meet  me  next  morning 
early ;  and  that  with  a  smile ;  making  me  one  of  her  best 
courtesies  ? 

I  was  in  the  dining-room  before  six,  expecting  her.  She  opened 
not  her  door.  I  went  up  stairs  and  down  ;  and  hemmed  ;  and 
called  Will ;  called  Dorcas ;  threw  the  doors  hard  to ;  but  still 
she  opened  not  her  door.  Thus  till  half  an  hour  after  eight 
fooled  I  away  my  time ;  and  then  (breakfast  ready)  I  sent 
Dorcas  to  request  her  company. 


THE   HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  267 

But  I  was  astonished,  when  (following  the  wench,  as  she  did 
at  the  first  invitation)  I  saw  her  enter  dressed,  all  but  her  gloves, 
and  those  and  her  fan  in  her  hand  :  in  the  same  moment  bidding 
Dorcas  direct  Will  to  get  a  chair  to  the  door. 

Cruel  creature,  thought  I,  to  expose  me  thus  to  the  derision 
of  the  women  below  ! 

Going  abroad,  madam  ? 

I  am,  sir. 

I  looked  cursed  silly,  I  am  sure.  You  will  breakfast  first,  I 
hope,  madam ;  in  a  very  humble  strain ;  yet  with  a  hundred 
tenter-hooks  in  my  heart. 

Had  she  given  me  more  notice  of  her  intention,  I  had  perhaps 
wrought  myself  up  to  the  frame  I  was  in  the  day  before,  and 
begun  my  vengeance.  And  immediately  came  into  my  head  all 
the  virulence  that  had  been  transcribed  for  me  from  Miss  Howe's 
letters,  and  in  that  letter  which  I  had  transcribed  myself. 

Yes,  she  would  drink  one  dish ;  and  then  laid  her  gloves  and 
fan  in  the  window,  just  by. 

I  was  perfectly  disconcerted.  I  hemmed,  and  was  going  to 
speak  several  times ;  but  I  knew  not  in  what  key.  Who's 
modest  now  !  thought  I.  Who's  insolent  now  !  —  How  a  tyrant 
of  a  woman  confounds  a  bashful  man  !  She  was  acting  Miss 
Howe,  I  thought ;   and  I  the  spiritless  Hickman. 

At  last,  I  will  begin,  thought  I. 

She  a  dish  —  la  dish. 

Sip,  her  eyes  her  own,  she ;  like  an  haughty  and  imperious 
sovereign,  conscious  of  dignity,  every  look  a  favour. 

Sip,  like  her  vassal,  I ;  lips  and  hands  trembling,  and  not 
knowing  that  I  sipped  or  tasted. 

I  was  —  I  was  —  I  sip'd  —  (drawing  in  my  breath  and  the 
liquor  together,  though  I  scalded  my  mouth  with  it)  I  was  in 
hopes,  madam  — 

Dorcas  came  in  just  then.  —  Dorcas,  said  she,  is  a  chair  gone 
for? 

D — n'd  impertinence,  thought  I,  thus  to  put  me  out  in  my 
speech ;  and  I  was  forced  to  wait  for  the  servant's  answer  to  the 
insolent  mistress's  question. 

William  is  gone  for  one,  madam. 


268  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

This  cost  me  a  minute's  silence  before  I  could  begin  again. 
And  then  it  was  with  my  hopes,  and  my  hopes,  and  my  hopes, 
that  I  should  have  been  early  admitted  to  — 

What  weather  is  it,  Dorcas  ?  said  she,  as  regardless  of  me  as 
if  I  had  not  been  present. 

A  little  lowering,  madam  —  the  sun  is  gone  in  —  it  was  very 
fine  half  an  hour  ago. 

I  had  no  patience.  Up  I  rose.  Down  went  the  tea-cup, 
saucer  and  all  —  Confound  the  weather,  the  sunshine,  and  the 
wench  !  —  Be  gone  for  a  devil,  when  I  am  speaking  to  your 
lady,  and  have  so  little  opportunity  given  me. 

Up  rose  the  saucy-face,  half-frighted ;  and  snatched  from  the 
window  her  gloves  and  fan. 

You  must  not  go,  madam ;  —  Seizing  her  hand  —  By  my 
soul  you  must  not  — 

Must  not,  sir  !  —  But  I  must  —  you  can  curse  your  maid  in 
my  absence  as  well  as  if  I  were  present  —  except  —  except  — 
you  intend  for  me  what  you  direct  to  her. 

Dearest  creature,  you  must  not  go  —  you  must  not  leave  me 
—  such  determined  scorn  !  such  contempts  !  —  Questions  asked 
your  servant  of  no  meaning  but  to  break  in  upon  me  —  I  cannot 
bear  it ! 

Detain  me  not,  struggling.  I  will  not  be  withheld.  I  like 
you  not,  nor  your  ways.  You  sought  to  quarrel  with  me  yester- 
day, for  no  reason  in  the  world  that  I  can  think  of  hut  because  I 
was  too  obliging.  You  are  an  ingrateful  man ;  and  I  hate  you 
with  my  whole  heart,  Mr.  Lovelace. 

Do  not  make  me  desperate,  madam.  Permit  me  to  say,  that 
you  shall  not  leave  me  in  this  humour.  Wherever  you  go  I  will 
attend  you. 

She  would  have  flung  from  me :  I  will  not  be  detained,  Mr. 
Lovelace.     I  will  go  out. 

Indeed  you  must  not,  madam,  in  this  humour.  And  I  placed 
myself  between  her  and  the  door.  —  And  then,  fanning,  she, 
threw  herself  into  a  chair,  her  sweet  face  all  crimsoned  over  with 
passion. 

I  cast  myself  at  her  feet.  Begone,  Mr.  Lovelace,  said  she, 
with  a  rejecting  motion,  her  fan  in  her  hand ;  for  your  own  sake 


THE   HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA   HARLOWE  269 

leave  me  !  —  My  soul  is  above  thee,  man  !  with  both  her  hands 
pushing  me  from  her  !  —  Urge  me  not  to  tell  thee  how  sincere^ 
I  think  my  soul  above  thee  !  —  Thou  hast  in  mine,  a  proud,  a 
too  proud  heart,  to  contend  with  !  —  Leave  me,  and  leave  me 
for  ever  !  —  Thou  hast  a  proud  heart  to  contend  with  !  — 

Her  air,  her  manner,  her  voice,  were  bewitchingly  noble, 
though  her  words  were  so  severe. 

Let  me  worship  an  angel,  said  I,  no  woman.  Forgive  me, 
dearest  creature  !  —  Creature  if  you  be,  forgive  me  !  —  Forgive 
my  inadvertencies  !  Forgive  my  inequalities  !  —  Pity  my  in- 
firmities !  —  Who  is  equal  to  my  Clarissa  ? 

I  trembled  between  admiration  and  love ;  and  wrapt  my 
arms  about  her  knees  as  she  sat.  She  tried  to  rise  at  the  moment ; 
but  my  clasping  round  her  thus  ardently,  drew  her  down  again ; 
and  never  was  woman  more  affrighted.  But,  free  as  my  clasping 
emotion  might  appear  to  her  apprehensive  heart,  I  had  not  at 
that  instant  any  thought  but  what  reverence  inspired.  And  till 
she  had  actually  withdrawn  [which  I  permitted  under  promise 
of  a  speedy  return,  and  on  her  consent  to  dismiss  the  chair]  all 
the  motions  of  my  heart  were  as  pure  as  her  own. 

VOL.   III.     LETTER  XLI 
Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Monday  afternoon. 

Pity  me.  Jack,  for  pity's  sake  ;  since,  if  thou  dost  not,  nobody 
else  will. 

She  began  with  me  hke  a  true  woman  [she  in  the  fault,  /  to 
be  blamed]  the  moment  I  entered  the  dining-room  ;  not  the  least 
apology,  not  the  least  excuse,  for  the  uproar  she  had  made, 
and  the  trouble  she  had  given  me. 

I  come,  said  she,  into  thy  detested  presence,  because  I  cannot 
help  it.  But  why  am  I  to  be  imprisoned  here  ?  Although  to 
no  purpose,  I  cannot  help 

Dearest  madam,  interrupted  I,  give  not  way  to  so  much  vio- 
lence. You  must  know,  that  your  detention  is  entirely  owing 
to  the  desire  I  have  to  make  you  all  the  amends  that  is  in  my 
power  to  make  you.     And  this,  as  well  for  your  sake  as  my  own. 


270  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

—  Surely  there  is  still  one  way  left  to  repair  the  wrongs  you  have 
suffered  — - 

Canst  thou  blot  out  the  past  week  !  Several  weeks  past,  I 
should  say ;  ever  since  I  have  been  with  thee  ?  Canst  thou  call 
back  time  ?  —  If  thou  canst  — 

Surely,  madam,  again  interrupting  her,  if  I  may  be  permitted 
to  call  you  legally  mine,  I  might  have  but  anticip 

Wretch,  that  thou  art !  Say  not  another  word  upon  this  sub- 
ject. When  thou  vowedst,  when  thou  promisedst  at  Hampstead,^ 
I  had  begun  to  think  that  I  must  be  thine.  If  I  had  consented, 
at  the  request  of  those  I  thought  thy  relations,  this  would  have 
been  a  principal  inducement,  that  I  could  then  have  brought 
thee,  what  was  most  wanted,  an  unsuUied  honour  in  dowry,  to 
a  wretch  destitute  of  all  honour ;  and  could  have  met  the  congrat- 
ulations of  a  family  to  which  thy  life  has  been  one  continued 
disgrace,  with  a  consciousness  of  deserving  their  gratulations. 
But  "Great  and  good  God  of  Heaven,  said  she,  give  me  patience 
to  support  myself  under  the  weight  of  those  afflictions,  which 
thou,  for  wise  and  good  ends,  though  at  present  impenetrable  by 
me,  hast  permitted  !" 

Then,  turning  towards  me,  who  knew  neither  what  to  say  to 
her,  nor  for  myself,  I  renounce  thee  for  ever,  Lovelace  !  — 
Abhorred  of  my  soul !  for  ever  I  renounce  thee  !  —  Seek  thy  for- 
tunes wheresoever  thou  wilt !  — 

Hinder  me  not  from  going  whither  my  mysterious  destiny  shall 
lead  me. 

What  right  have  you  to  stop  me,  as  you  lately  did ;  and  to 
bring  me  up  by  force,  my  hands  and  arms  bruised  with  your  vio- 
lence ?     What  right  have  you  to  detain  me  here  ? 

I  am  cut  to  the  heart,  madam,  with  invectives  so  violent.  I 
am  but  too  sensible  of  the  wrong  I  have  done  you,  or  I  could  not 
hear  your  reproaches.  Yet,  if  you  think  yourself  in  my  power, 
I  would  caution  you,  madam,  not  to  make  me  desperate.  For 
you  shall  be  mine,  or  my  life  shall  be  the  forfeit !  Nor  is  life 
worth  having  without  you  ! 

^  Some  weeks  before  the  interview  described  in  this  letter  Clarissa  had  escaped  from 
the  London  house  and  found  shelter  at  Hampstead.  Lovelace  had  pursued  her  here,  and 
had  brought  her  back  to  London  under  false  pretenses. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  271 

Be  thine  I  —  I  be  thine  I  —  said  the  passionate  beauty,  O 
how  lovely  in  her  violence  ! 

Yes,  madam,  be  inine !  —  I  repeat,  you  shall  be  mine  !  —  My 
very  crime  is  your  glory.  My  love,  my  admiration  of  you  is 
increased  by  what  has  passed.  I  am  willing,  madam,  to  court 
your  returning  favour  :  but  let  me  tell  you,  were  the  house  beset 
by  a  thousand  armed  men,  resolved  to  take  you  from  me,  they 
should  not  effect  their  purpose,  while  I  had  life. 

I  never,  never  will  be  yours,  said  she,  clasping  her  hands  to- 
gether, and  lifting  up  her  eyes  !  — ■  I  never  will  be  yours  ! 

We  may  yet  see  many  happy  years,  madam.  Enjoin  but  the 
terms  I  can  make  my  peace  with  you  upon,  and  I  will  instantly 
comply. 

Never,  never,  repeated  she,  will  I  be  yours  ! 

Only  forgive  me,  my  dearest  Hfe,  this  one  time  !  — 

Hear  me  out,  I  beseech  you,  madam ;  for  she  was  going  to 
speak :  the  God,  whom  you  serve,  requires  but  repentance  and 
amendment.  Imitate  him,  my  dearest  love,  and  bless  me  with 
the  means  of  reforming  a  course  of  life,  that  begins  to  be 
hateful  to  me.  And  let  to-morrow's  sun  witness  to  our 
espousals. 

/  cannot  judge  thee,  said  she ;  but  the  God  to  whom  thou  so 
boldly  referrest,  can ;  and  assure  thyself  he  will.  But,  if  indeed 
thou  art  touched  for  thy  ungrateful  baseness,  and  meanest  any 
thing  by  pleading  the  holy  example  thou  recommendest  to  my 
imitation ;  in  this  thy  pretended  repentant  moment,  let  me  sift 
thee  thoroughly ;  and  by  thy  answer  I  shall  judge  of  the  sincer- 
ity of  thy  pretended  declarations. 


Let  me  ask  thee  next,  said  she  (thou  knowest  the  opinion  I 
have  of  the  women  thou  broughtest  to  me  at  Hampstead ;  and 
who  have  seduced  me  hither  to  my  ruin ;  let  me  ask  thee)  if, 
really  and  truly,  they  were  Lady  Betty  Lawrence  and  thy  cousin 
Montague  ? 

Astonishing,  my  dear,  that  you  should  suspect  them  !  — 
But,  knowing  your  strange  opinion  of  them,  what  can  I  say  to 
be  believed  ? 


272  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

Dost  thou  thus  evade  my  question  ?  Let  me  know,  I  repeat, 
whether  those  women  be  really  lady  Betty  Lawrence  and  thy 
cousin  Montague  ? 

Let  me,  my  dearest  love,  be  enabled  to-morrow  to  call  you 
lawfully  mine,  and  we  will  set  out  the  next  day,  if  you  please, 
for  Berkshire,  to  my  Lord  M.'s,  where  they  both  are  at  this 
time ;  and  you  shall  convince  yourself  by  your  own  eyes,  and 
by  your  own  ears ;  which  you  will  believe  sooner  than  all  I 
can  say  or  swear. 

Now,  Belford,  she  pressing  me  still  for  a  categorical  answer, 
I  swore  to  it  [lovers^  oaths,  Jack  /]  that  they  were  really  and  truly 
Lady  Betty  Lawrence  and  my  cousin  Montague. 

She  Hfted  up  her  hands  and  eyes  —  what  can  I  think  !  —  What 
can  I  think  !  — 

You  think  me  a  devil,  madam  ;  a  very  devil !  or  you  could  not, 
after  you  have  put  these  questions  to  me,  seem  to  doubt  the  truth 
of  answers  so  solemnly  sworn  to. 

And  if  I  do  think  thee  so,  have  I  not  cause  ?  Is  there  another 
man  in  the  world  who  could  act  by  any  poor  friendless  creature 
as  thou  hast  acted  by  me,  whom  thou  hast  made  friendless  — 
and  who,  before  I  knew  thee,  had  for  a  friend  every  one  who 
knew  me  ? 

A  horrid  dear  creature  !  —  By  my  soul,  she  made  me  shudder  ! 
She  had  need  indeed  to  talk  of  her  unhappiness  in  falling  into  the 
hands  of  the  only  man  in  the  world,  who  could  have  used  her,  as 
I  have  used  her  —  she  is  the  only  woman  in  the  world,  who  could 
have  shocked  and  disturbed  me,  as  she  has  done.  —  So  we  are 
upon  a  foot  in  that  respect.  And  I  think  I  have  the  worst  of  it 
by  much :  since  very  little  has  been  my  joy ;  very  much  my 
trouble :  and  her  punishment,  as  she  calls  it,  is  over :  but  when 
mine  will,  or  what  it  may  he,  who  can  tell  ? 


What  a  devil  ails  me  !  —  I  can  neither  think  nor  write  !  — 
Lie  down,  pen,  for  a  moment ! 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  273 

LETTER   LVI 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Friday  night,  or  rather  Sat.  morn,  i  o'clock. 

I  AM  most  confoundedly  out  of  humour.  The  reason  let  it 
follow ;  if  it  will  follow  —  no  preparation  for  it  from  me. 

I  tried  by  gentleness  and  love  to  soften  —  what  ?  —  marble. 
A  heart  incapable  either  of  love  or  gentleness.  Her  past  inju- 
ries for  ever  in  her  head. 

I  then  wanted  to  provoke  her :  like  a  coward  boy,  who  waits 
for  the  first  blow  before  he  can  persuade  himself  to  fight.  She 
seemed  aware  of  her  danger :  and  would  not  directly  brave  my 
resentment. 

In  this  situation ;  the  women  ready  to  assist ;  and,  if  I  pro- 
ceeded not,  as  ready  to  ridicule  me ;  what  had  I  left  me,  but  to 
pursue  the  concerted  scheme. 


If  you  must  have  it  all,  you  must  ! 

Now,  Belford,  see  us  all  sitting  in  judgment,  resolved  to 
punish  the  fair  briberess  —  I,  and  the  mother,  the  hitherto 
dreaded  mother,  the  nieces  Sally,  Polly,  the  traiteress  Dorcas,  and 
Mabell,^  a  guard,  as  it  were,  over  Dorcas,  that  she  might  not 
run  away,  and  hide  herself :  all  pre-determined,  and  of  necessity 
pre-determined,  from  the  journey  I  was  going  to  take,  and  my 
precarious  situation  with  her  —  and  hear  her  unbolt,  unlock, 
unhar  the  door ;  then,  as  it  proved  afterwards,  put  the  key  into 
the  lock  on  the  outside,  lock  the  door,  and  put  it  in  her  pocket 
—  Will,  I  knew,  below,  who  would  give  me  notice,  if,  while  we 
were  all  above,  she  should  mistake  her  way,  and  go  down  stairs, 
instead  of  coming  into  the  dining-room :  the  street  doors  also 
doubly  secured,  and  every  shutter  to  the  windows  round  the 
house  fastened,  that  no  noise  or  screaming  should  be  heard  [such 
was  the  brutal  preparation  !]  —  And  then  hear  her  step  towards 
us,  and  instantly  see  her  enter  among  us,  confiding  in  her  own 
innocence ;   and  with  a  majesty  in  her  person  and  manner,  that 

'  Women  in  the  house  where  Clarissa  was  confined. 


274  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

is  natural  to  her ;  but  which  then  shone  out  in  all  its  glory ;  — 
Every  tongue  silent,  every  eye  awed,  every  heart  quaking,  mine, 
in  a  particular  manner,  sunk  throbless,  and  twice  below  its 
usual  region,  to  once  at  my  throat :  —  a  shameful  recreant !  — 
She  silent  too,  looking  round  her,  first  on  me ;  then  on  the 
mother,  as  no  longer  fearing  her  !  then  on  Sally,  Polly,  and  the 
culprit  Dorcas  !  —  Such  the  glorious  power  of  innocence  exerted 
at  that  awful  moment ! 

She  would  have  spoken,  but  could  not,  looking  down  my  guilt 
into  confusion.  A  mouse  might  have  been  heard  passing  over 
the  floor :  her  own  light  feet  and  rusthng  silks  could  not  have 
prevented  it ;  for  she  seemed  to  tread  air,  and  to  be  all  soul. 
She  passed  backwards  and  forwards,  now  towards  me,  now 
towards  the  door  several  times,  before  speech  could  get  the  better 
of  indignation ;  and  at  last,  after  twice  or  thrice  hemming  to 
recover  her  articulate  voice  —  "O  thou  contemptible  and 
abandoned  Lovelace  !  thinkest  thou  that  I  see  not  through  this 
poor  villainous  plot  of  thine,  and  of  these  thy  wicked  accomplices  ? 

"Thou,  woman,  [looking  at  the  mother]  once  my  terror! 
always  my  dislike ;  but  now  my  detestation  !  shouldst  once  more 
(for  thine  perhaps  was  the  preparation)  have  provided  for  me 
intoxicating  potions  to  rob  me  of  my  senses  — 

"And  then,  thou  wretch,  [turning  to  me]  mightest  more  securely 
have  depended  upon  such  a  low  contrivance  as  this  ! 

"And  ye,  vile  women,  who  perhaps  have  been  the  ruin,  body 
and  soul,  of  hundreds  of  innocents,  (you  shew  me  how,  in  full 
assembly)  know,  that  I  am  not  married  —  ruined  as  I  am,  by 
your  help,  I  bless  God,  I  am  not  married  to  this  miscreant  — 
and  I  have  friends  that  will  demand  my  honour  at  your  hands  ! 
—  And  to  whose  authority  I  will  apply ;  for  none  has  this  man 
over  me.  Look  to  it  then,  what  further  insults  you  offer  me,  or 
incite  him  to  offer  me.  I  am  a  person,  though  thus  vilely  be- 
trayed, of  rank  and  fortune.  I  never  will  be  his  ;  and,  to  your 
utter  ruin,  will  find  friends  to  pursue  you :  and  now  I  have  this 
full  proof  of  your  detestable  wickedness,  and  have  heard  your 
base  incitements,  will  have  no  mercy  upon  you  !" 

They  could  not  laugh  at  the  poor  figure  I  made.  Lord  !  how 
every  devil,  conscience-shaken,  trembled  !  — 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  275 

What  a  dejection  must  ever  fall  to  the  lot  of  guilt,  were  it 
given  to  innocence  always  thus  to  exert  itself  !  — 

"And  as  for  thee,  thou  vile  Dorcas;  thou  double  deceiver  — 
whining  out  thy  pretended  love  for  me  !  —  Begone,  wretch  !  — 
Nobody  will  hurt  thee  !  —  Begone,  I  say  !  —  Thou  hast  too  well 
acted  thy  part  to  be  blamed  by  any  here,  but  myself  —  thou  art 
safe :  thy  guilt  is  thy  security  in  such  a  house  as  this  !  —  Thy 
shameful,  thy  poor  part,  thou  hast  as  well  acted,  as  the  low  farce 
could  give  thee  to  act  I  —  as  well  as  they  each  of  them  (thy 
superiors,  though  not  thy  betters)  thou  seest  can  act  theirs. 
—  Steal  away  into  darkness  :  no  inquiry  after  this  will  be  made, 
whose  the  first  advances,  thine  or  mine." 

And,  as  I  hope  to  live,  the  wench,  confoundedly  frightened, 
slunk  away ;  so  did  her  sentinel  Mabell ;  though  I,  endeavour- 
ing to  rally,  cried  out  for  Dorcas  to  stay  —  but  I  believe  the  devil 
could  not  have  stopt  her,  when  an  angel  bid  her  begone. 

Madam,  said  I,  let  me  tell  you  ;  and  was  advancing  towards  her 
with  a  fierce  aspect,  most  cursedly  vexed,  and  ashamed  too 

But  she  turned  to  me ;  "Stop where  thou  art,0  vilest  and  most 
abandoned  of  men  !  —  Stop  where  thou  art !  —  Nor,  with  that 
determined  face,  offer  to  touch  me,  if  thou  wouldst  not  that  I 
should  be  a  corpse  at  thy  feet !" 

To  my  astonishment,  she  held  forth  a  penknife  in  her  hand, 
the  point  to  her  own  bosom,  grasping  resolutely  the  whole 
handle,  so  that  there  was  no  offering  to  take  it  from  her. 

"I  offer  not  mischief  to  any  body  but  myself.  You,  sir,  and 
ye  women,  are  safe  from  every  violence  of  mine.  The  law  shall 
be  all  my  resource :  the  LAW,"  and  she  spoke  the  word  with 
emphasis,  that  to  such  people  carries  natural  terror  with  it,  and 
now  struck  a  panic  into  them. 

No  wonder,  since  those  who  will  damn  themselves  to  procure 
ease  and  plenty  in  this  world,  will  tremble  at  everything  that 
seems  to  threaten  their  methods  of  obtaining  that  ease  and 
plenty.  — 

The  LAW  only  shall  be  my  refuge  !  — 

The  infamous  mother  whispered  me,  that  it  were  better  to 
make  terms  with  this  strange  lady,  and  let  her  go. 

Sally,   notwithstanding   all   her  impudent   bravery   at  other 


276  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

times,  said,  //  Mr.  Lovelace  had  told  them  what  was  not  true  of 
her  being  his  wife  — 

And  Polly  Horton,  that  she  must  needs  say,  the  lady,  if  she 
were  not  my  wife,  had  been  very  much  injured ;  that  was  all. 

That  is  not  now  a  matter  to  be  disputed,  cried  I :  you  and  I 
know,  madam 

"We  do,  —  said  she  ;  and  I  thank  God,  I  am  not  thine  — once 
more  I  thank  God  for  it  —  I  have  no  doubt  of  the  further  base- 
ness that  thou  hast  intended  me,  by  this  vile  and  low  trick: 
but  I  have  my  senses,  Lovelace :  and  from  my  heart  I  despise 
thee,  thou  very  poor  Lovelace  !  —  How  canst  thou  stand  in  my 
presence?  thou,  that"  — 

Madam,  madam,  madam  —  these  are  insults  not  to  be  borne 
—  and  was  approaching  her. 

She  withdrew  to  the  door,  and  set  her  back  against  it,  hold- 
ing the  pointed  knife  to  her  heaving  bosom ;  while  the  women 
held  me,  beseeching  me  not  to  provoke  the  violent  lady  —  for 
their  house  sake,  and  be  curs'd  to  them,  they  besought  me  — 
and  all  three  hung  upon  me  —  while  the  truly  heroic  lady, 
braved  me,  at  that  distance. 

"Approach  me,  Lovelace,  with  resentment,  if  thou  wilt.  I 
dare  die.  It  is  in  defence  of  my  honour.  God  will  be  merciful 
to  my  poor  soul !  I  expect  no  mercy  from  thee  !  I  have  gained 
this  distance,  and  two  steps  nearer  me,  and  thou  shaft  see  what 
I  dare  do!"  — 

Leave  me,  women,  to  myself,  and  to  my  angel ;  — ■  They  re- 
tired at  a  distance  — ■  O  my  beloved  creature,  how  you  terrify 
me  !  — ■  Holding  out  my  arms,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee  —  Not 
a  step,  not  a  step  further,  except  to  receive  my  death  at  that 
injured  hand  which  is  thus  held  up  against  a  hfe  far  dearer  to  me 
than  my  own  1  I  am  a  villain  !  the  blackest  of  villains  —  Say 
you  will  sheath  your  knife  in  the  injurer's,  not  the  injured's 
heart,  and  then  I  will  indeed  approach  you,  but  not  else. 

The  mother  twang'd  her  d — n'd  nose ;  and  Sally  and  Polly 
pulled  out  their  handkerchiefs,  and  turned  from  us.  They  never 
in  their  lives,  they  told  me  afterwards,  beheld  such  a  scene 

Innocence  so  triumphant :  villainy  so  debased,  they  must 
mean ! 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  277 

Unawares  to  myself,  I  had  moved  onward  to  my  angel ;  — 
"And  dost  thou,  dost  thou,  still  disclaiming,  still  advancing — ■ 
dost  thou,  dost  thou,  still  insidiously  move  towards  me?"  [and 
her  hand  was  extended]  "I  dare  —  I  dare  —  not  rashly  neither 
—  my  heart  from  principle  abhors  the  act,  which  thou  makest 
necessary!  —  God  in  thy  mercy ;  [Hfting  up  her  eyes  and  hands] 
God,  in  thy  mercy  !  — " 

I  threw  myself  to  the  further  end  of  the  room.  An  ejacula- 
tion, a  silent  ejaculation  employing  her  thoughts  that  moment ! 
Polly  says  the  whites  of  her  lovely  eyes  were  only  visible :  and, 
in  the  instant  that  she  extended  her  hand,  assuredly  to  strike  the 
fatal  blow  [how  the  very  recital  terrifies  me  !]  she  cast  her  eye 
towards  me,  and  saw  me,  at  the  utmost  distance  the  room  would 
allow,  and  heard  my  broken  voice  —  my  voice  was  utterly 
broken ;  nor  knew  I  what  I  said,  or  whether  to  the  purpose  or 
not  —  and  her  charming  cheeks,  that  were  all  in  a  glow  before, 
turned  pale,  as  if  terrified  at  her  own  purpose ;  and,  lifting  up  her 
eyes  —  "Thank  God  !  —  Thank  God  !  said  the  angel  —  delivered 
for  the  present;  for  the  present  delivered  —  from  myself  —  keep, 
sir,  keep  that  distance,"  [looking  down  towards  me,  who  was 
prostrate  on  the  floor,  my  heart  pierced,  as  with  a  hundred 
daggers:]  "that  distance  has  saved  a  life:  to  what  reserved, 
the  Almighty  only  knows  !"  — 

To  be  happy,  madam ;  and  to  make  happy  !  —  And  O  let  me 
but  hope  for  your  favour  for  to-morrow  —  I  will  put  off  my 
journey   till   then  —  and   may   God  — 

Swear  not,  sir  !  —  with  an  awful  and  piercing  aspect  —  you 
have  too,  too  often  sworn  !  —  God's  eye  is  upon  us  !  —  His  more 
immediate  eye ;  and  looked  wildly.  —  But  the  women  looked  up 
to  the  ceiHng,  as  if  afraid  of  God's  eye,  and  trembled.  And  well 
they  might;  and  /  too,  who  so  very  lately  had  each  of  us  the 
devil  in  our  hearts. 

If  not  to-morrow,  madam,  say  but  next  Thursday,  your 
uncle's  birth-day,  say  but  next  Thursday  ! 

"This  I  say,  of  this  you  may  assure  yourself,  I  never,  never 
will  be  yours.  —  And  let  me  hope,  that  I  may  be  entitled  to  the 
performance  of  your  promise,  to  be  permitted  to  leave  this 
innocent  house,  as  one  called  it  (but  long  have  my  ears  been 


278  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

accustomed  to  such  inversions  of  words)  as  soon  as  the  day 
breaks." 

Did  my  perdition  depend  upon  it,  that  you  cannot,  madam,  but 
upon  terms.  And  I  hope  you  will  not  terrify  me  —  still  dreading 
the  accursed  knife. 

''Nothing  less  than  an  attempt  upon  my  honour  shall  make 
me  desperate.  I  have  no  view  but  to  defend  my  honour  :  with 
such  a  view  only  I  entered  into  treaty  with  your  infamous  agent 
below.  The  resolution  you  have  seen,  I  trust,  God  will  give 
me  again,  upon  the  same  occasion.  But  for  a  less,  I  wish  not 
for  it.  —  Only  take  notice,  women,  that  I  am  no  wife  of  this 
man:  basely  as  he  has  used  me,  I  am  not  his  wife.  He  has  no 
authority  over  me.  If  he  go  away  by  and  by,  and  you  act  by 
his  authority  to  detain  me,  look  to  it. 

Then,  taking  one  of  the  Hghts,  she  turned  from  us ;  and  away 
she  went  unmolested.  ~  Not  a  soul  was  able  to  molest  her. 

Mabell  saw  her,  trembhngly,  and  in  a  hurry,  take  the  key  of 
her  chamber-door  out  of  her  pocket,  and  unlock  it ;  and,  as  soon 
as  she  entered,  heard  her  double-lock,  bar,  and  bolt  it. 


This,  this  Belford,  was  the  hand  I  made  of  a  contrivance  from 
which  I  expected  so  much  !  —  And  now  I  am  ten  times  worse  off 
than  before. 

LETTER  CV 

Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

M.  Hall,  Sat.  night,  July  15. 

All  undone,  undone  by  Jupiter  !  —  Zounds,  Jack,  what  shall 
I  do  now  !    A  curse  upon  all  my  plots  and  contrivances  ! 

The  moment  thou  receivest  this,  I  bespeak  thy  assistance. 
This  messenger  rides  for  life  and  death  — 

This  cursed,  cursed  woman, ^  on  Friday  dispatched  man  and 
horse  with  the  joyful  news  that  she  had  found  out  my  angel ;  ^ 

1  Mrs.  Sinclair,  in  whose  keeping  Clarissa  had  been  since  she  came  to  London. 

2  Clarissa  had  escaped  a  second  time,  and  had  taken  lodgings  with  a  Mrs.  Smith,  in 
Covent  Garden. 


THE   HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA  HARLOWE  279 

and  on  Friday  morning,  after  she  had  been  at  prayers  at  Covent 
Garden  church  —  praying  for  my  reformation  perhaps  —  got 
her  arrested  by  two  sheriff's  officers,  as  she  was  returning  to  her 
lodgings,  who  (villains  !)  put  her  into  a  chair  they  had  in  readi- 
ness, and  carried  her  to  one  of  the  cursed  fellow's  houses. 

She  has  arrested  her  for  150/.  pretendedly  due  for  board  and 
lodging. 

And  here,  has  the  dear  creature  lain  already  two  days. 

Hasten,  hasten,  dear  Jack,  to  the  injured  charmer! — she 
deserved  not  this  ! 

Set  her  free  the  moment  you  see  her :  —  On  your  knees,  for 
me,  beg  her  pardon :  —  only  let  her  permit  you  to  receive  her 
commands. 

Let  her  have  all  her  clothes  and  effects  sent  her  instantly,  as 
a  small  proof  of  my  sincerity.  And  force  upon  the  dear  creature, 
who  must  be  moneyless,  what  sums  you  can  get  her  to  take. 

A  Unci  a  line!  a  kingdom  for  a  line!  with  tolerable  news,  the 
first  moment  thou  canst  write  !  —  This  fellow  waits  to  bring  it. 

LETTER   CTX 
Mr.  Belford  to  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Monday,  July  17. 

About  six  this  morning  I  went  to  Rowland's.^  Mrs.  Sinclair 
was  to  follow  me,  in  order  to  dismiss  the  action ;  but  not  to  come 
in  sight. 

Rowland,  upon  inquiry,  told  me  that  the  lady  was  extremely 
ill ;  and  that  she  had  desired,  that  no  one  but  his  wife  or  maid 
should  come  near  her. 

I  said,  I  must  see  her. 

His  wife  went  up :  but  returned  presently,  saying,  she  could 
not  get  her  to  speak  to  her ;  yet  that  her  eyeHds  moved. 

Oons,  woman,  said  I,  the  lady  may  be  in  a  fit :  the  lady  may 
be  dying  —  let  me  go  up.     Shew  me  the  way. 

A  horrid  hole  of  a  house,  in  an  alley  they  call  a  court ;  stairs 
wretchedly  narrow,  even  to  the  first  floor  rooms :    and  into  a 

1  Where  Clarissa  was  imprisoned  for  debt. 


28o  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

den  they  led  me,  with  broken  walls,  which  had  been  papered,  as 
I  saw  by  a  multitude  of  tacks,  and  some  torn  bits  held  on  by  the 
rusty  heads. 

The  floor  indeed  was  clean,  but  the  ceiling  was  smoked  with 
variety  of  figures,  and  initials  of  names,  that  had  been  the  woe- 
ful employment  of  wretches  who  had  no  other  way  to  amuse 
themselves. 

A  bed  at  one  corner,  with  coarse  curtains  tacked  up  at  the  feet 
to  the  ceiling ;  because  the  curtain-rings  were  broken  off ;  but 
a  coverlid  upon  it  with  a  cleanish  look,  though  plaguily  in  tat- 
ters, and  the  corners  tied  up  in  tassels,  that  the  rents  in  it  might 
go  no  further. 

The  windows  dark  and  double-barred,  the  tops  boarded  up 
to  save  mending ;  and  only  a  little  four-paned  eyelet-hole  of  a 
casement  to  let  in  the  air ;  more,  however,  coming  in  at  broken 
panes,  than  could  come  in  at  that. 

Four  old  Turkey-worked  chairs,  bursten-bottomed,  the  stuf- 
fing staring  out. 

An  old,  tottering,  worm-eaten  table,  that  had  more  nails 
bestowed  in  mending  it  to  make  it  stand,  than  the  table  cost 
fifty  years  ago,  when  new. 

On  the  mantle-piece  was  an  iron  shove-up  candlestick,  with  a 
lighted  candle  in  it,  twinkle,  twinkle,  twinkle,  four  of  them,  I 
suppose,  for  a  penny. 

Near  that,  on  the  same  shelf,  was  an  old  looking  glass,  cracked 
through  the  middle,  breaking  out  into  a  thousand  points ;  the 
crack  given  it,  perhaps,  in  a  rage,  by  some  poor  creature,  to 
whom  it  gave  the  representation  of  his  heart's  woes  in  his  face. 

The  chimney  had  two  half  tiles  in  it  on  one  side,  and  one  whole 
one  on  the  other ;  which  shewed  it  had  been  in  better  plight ; 
but  now  the  very  mortar  had  followed  the  rest  of  the  tiles  in 
every  other  place,  and  left  the  bricks  bare. 

An  old  half-barred  stove-grate  was  in  the  chimney ;  and  in 
that  a  large  stone  bottle  without  a  neck,  filled  with  baleful  yew, 
as  an  evergreen,  withered  southern-wood,  dead  sweet-briar,  and 
sprigs  of  rue  in  flower. 

To  finish  the  shocking  description,  in  a  dark  nook  stood  an 
old  broken-bottomed  cane  couch,  without  a  squab,  or  coverlid, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  CLARISSA  HARLOWE  281 

sunk  at  one  corner,  and  unmortised  by  the  failing  of  one  of  its 
worm-eaten  legs,  which  lay  in  two  pieces  under  the  wretched 
piece  of  furniture  it  could  no  longer  support. 

And  this,  thou  horrid  Lovelace,  was  the  bedchamber  of  the  divine 
Clarissa ! !  ! 

I  had  leisure  to  cast  my  eye  on  these  things :  for,  going  up 
softly,  the  poor  lady  turned  not  about  at  our  entrance ;  nor,  till 
I  spoke,  moved  her  head. 

She  was  kneeling  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  near  the  dismal 
window,  against  the  table,  on  an  old  bolster  (as  it  seemed  to 
be)  of  the  cane  couch,  half-covered  with  her  handkerchief ;  her 
back  to  the  door ;  which  was  only  shut  to,  [no  need  of  fasten- 
ings !]  her  arms  crossed  upon  the  table,  the  fore-finger  of  her 
right  hand  in  her  Bible.  She  had  perhaps  been  reading  in  it, 
and  could  read  no  longer.  Paper,  pens,  ink,  lay  by  her  book  on 
the  table.     Her  dress  was  white  lustring,  exceeding  neat. 

When  I  surveyed  the  room  around,  and  the  kneeHng  lady, 
sunk  with  majesty  too  in  her  white  flowing  robes,  (for  she  had 
not  on  a  hoop)  spreading  the  dark,  though  not  dirty,  floor,  and 
illuminating  that  horrid  corner,  something  rose  in  my  throat, 
I  know  not  what.  Con  —  Con  —  confound  you  both,  said  I, 
to  the  man  and  woman,  is  this  an  apartment  for  such  a  lady  ? 

Sir,  we  would  have  had  the  lady  to  accept  of  our  own  bed- 
chamber :  but  she  refused  it.  We  are  poor  people  —  and  we 
expect  nobody  will  stay  with  us  longer  than  they  can  help  it. 

Up  then  raised  the  charming  sufferer  her  lovely  face;  but 
with  such  a  significance  of  woe  overspreading  it,  that  I  could 
not,  for  the  soul  of  me,  help  being  visibly  affected. 


I  dare  not  approach  you,  dearest  lady,  without  your  leave : 
but  on  my  knees  I  beseech  you  to  permit  me  to  release  you  from 
this  d — n'd  house,  and  out  of  the  power  of  the  accursed  woman, 
.who  was  the  occasion  of  your  being  here  ! 

She  Ufted  up  her  sweet  face  once  more,  and  beheld  me  on  my 
knees. 

Are  you  not  —  are  you  not  Mr.  Belford,  sir  !  I  think  your 
name  is  Belford  ? 


282  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

It  is,  madam,  and  I  ever  was  a  worshipper  of  your  virtues,  and 
an  advocate  for  you ;  and  I  come  to  release  you  from  the  hands 
you  are  in. 

This  moment,  dearest  lady,  this  very  moment,  if  you  please, 
you  may  depart.  You  are  absolutely  free,  and  your  own  mis- 
tress. 

I  had  now  as  lieve  die  here  in  this  place,  as  any  where.  I  will 
owe  no  obligation  to  any  friend  of  him  in  whose  company  you 
have  seen  me.     So,  pray,  sir,  withdraw. 


I  sent  up  again,  by  Rowland's  wife,  when  I  heard  that  the  lady 
was  recovered,  beseeching  her  to  quit  that  devilish  place ;  and 
the  woman  assured  her,  that  she  was  at  full  liberty  to  do  so ; 
for  that  the  action  was  dismissed. 

Being  told,  that  she  desired  not  to  be  disturbed,  I  took  this 
opportunity  to  go  to  her  lodgings  in  Covent  Garden. 

The  man's  name  is  Smith,  a  dealer  in  gloves,  and  petty  mer- 
chandise.    Honest  people,  it  seems. 

I  talked  with  the  man,  and  told  him  what  had  befallen  the 
lady ;  owing,  as  I  said,  to  a  mistake  of  orders  ;  and  gave  her  the 
character  she  deserved. 

He  told  me,  that  a  letter  was  left  for  her  there  on  Saturday ; 
and,  about  half  an  hour  before  I  came,  another,  superscribed  by 
the  same  hand  ;  the  first,  by  the  post ;  the  other,  by  a  country- 
man. 

I  thought  it  right  to  take  the  two  letters  back  with  me ;  and 
dismissing  my  coach,  took  a  chair,  as  a  more  proper  vehicle  for 
the  lady,  if  I  (the  friend  of  her  destroyer)  could  prevail  upon  her 
to  leave  Rowland's. 

She  gave  the  maid  something ;  probably  the  only  half -guinea 
she  had :  and  then  with  difficulty,  her  limbs  trembling  under 
her,  and  supported  by  Mrs.  Rowland,  got  down  stairs. 

I  offered  my  arm  :  she  was  pleased  to  lean  upon  it. 

I  ordered  my  servant  (whose  mourning  made  him  less  observ- 
able as  such,  and  who  had  not  been  in  the  lady's  eye)  to  keep 
the  chair  in  view ;  and  to  bring  me  word  how  she  did  when  set 
down.     The  fellow  had  the  thought  to  step  to  the  shop,  just 


THE   HISTORY   OF   CLARISSA   HARLOWE  283 

before  the  chair  entered  it,  under  the  pretence  of  buying  snuff ; 
and  so  enabled  himself  to  give  me  an  account,  that  she  was 
received  with  great  joy  by  the  good  woman  of  the  house ;  who 
told  her,  she  was  but  just  come  in  :  and  was  preparing  to  attend 
her  in  High  Holborn.  —  O  Mrs.  Smith,  said  she,  as  soon  as  she 
saw  her,  did  you  not  think  I  was  run  away  ?  —  You  don't  know 
what  I  have  suffered  since  I  saw  you.  I  have  been  in  a  prison  ! 
—  Arrested  for  debts  I  owe  not !  —  But,  thank  God,  I  am  here  ! 

Will  you  let  Catharine  assist  me  to  bed  ?  —  I  have  not  had 
my  clothes  off  since  Thursday  night. 

What  she  further  said,  the  fellow  heard  not,  she  leaning  upon 
the  maid,  and  going  up  stairs. 

LETTER   CXVIII 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 

Thursday  afternoon. 

You  pain  me,  my  dearest  Miss  Howe,  by  the  ardour  of  your 
noble  friendship.  I  will  be  very  brief,  because  I  am  not  well. 
But  beforehand,  I  must  tell  you,  my  dear,  I  will  not  have  that 
man  —  don't  be  angry  with  me.  —  But  indeed  I  won't.  So 
let  him  be  asked  no  questions  about  me,  I  beseech  you. 

I  do  not  despond,  my  dear. 

I  am  no  prisoner  now  in  a  vile  house.  I  am  not  now  in  the 
power  of  that  man's  devices.  I  am  not  now  obliged  to  hide 
myself  in  corners  for  fear  of  him.  One  of  his  intimate  compan- 
ions is  become  my  warm  friend,  and  engages  to  keep  him  from 
me,  and  that  by  his  own  consent.  I  am  among  honest  people. 
I  have  all  my  clothes  and  effects  restored  to  me.  The  wretch 
himself  bears  testimony  to  my  honour. 

Indeed  I  am  very  weak  and  ill :  but  I  have  an  excellent  phy- 
sician, Dr.  H.  and  as  worthy  an  apothecary,  Mr.  Goddard  — 
their  treatment  of  me,  my  dear,  is  perfectly  paternal!  —  My 
mind  too,  I  can  find  begins  to  strengthen :  and  me  thinks,  at 
times,  I  find  myself  superior  to  my  calamities. 

I  shall  have  sinkings  sometimes.  I  must  expect  such.  And 
my  father's  maledict  —  But  you  will  chide  me  for  introducing 
that,  now  I  am  enumerating  my  comforts. 


284  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

But  I  charge  you,  my  dear,  that  you  do  not  suffer  my  calam- 
ities to  sit  too  heavy  upon  your  own  mind.  If  you  do,  that  will 
be  to  newpoint  some  of  those  arrows  that  have  been  blunted, 
and  lost  their  sharpness. 

You  will  think  very  meanly  of  your  Clarissa,  if  you  do  not 
believe,  that  the  greatest  pleasure  she  can  receive  in  this  life,  is 
in  your  prosperity  and  welfare.  Think  not  of  me,  my  only 
friend,  but  as  we  were  in  times  past :  and  suppose  me  gone  a 
great,  great  way  off ;  —  a  long  journey  !  — 

Love  me  still,  however.  But  let  it  be  with  a  weaning  love. 
I  am  not  what  I  was,  when  we  were  inseparable  lovers,  as  I  may 
say  —  our  views  must  now  be  different.  And  so,  my  dearest 
love,  for  the  present  adieu  !  —  Adieu,  my  dearest  love ;  —  but 
I  shall  soon  write  again,  I  hope  ! 

VOL.   IV.    LETTER  LXXXIX 
Mr.  Belford  to  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Thursday  night,  Aug.  31. 

When  I  concluded  my  last,  I  hoped,  that  my  next  attendance 
upon  this  surprising  lady  would  furnish  me  with  some  particu- 
lars as  agreeable  as  now  could  be  hoped  for  from  the  declining 
way  she  is  in,  by  reason  of  the  welcome  letter  she  had  received 
from  her  cousin  Morden.  But  it  proved  quite  otherwise  to  we, 
though,  not  to  herself,  for  I  think  I  never  was  more  shocked  in 
my  life  than  on  the  occasion  I  shall  mention  presently. 

When  I  attended  her  about  seven  in  the  evening,  she  told  me 
that  she  found  herself  in  a  very  petulant  way,  after  I  had  left 
her.  Strange,  said  she,  that  the  pleasure  I  received  from  my 
cousin's  letter  should  have  such  an  effect  upon  me  ?  But  I 
could  not  help  giving  way  to  a  comparative  humour,  as  I  may 
call  it,  and  to  think  it  very  hard,  that  my  nearer  relations  did 
not  take  the  methods  which  my  cousin  Morden  kindly  took, 
by  inquiring  into  my  merit  or  demerit,  and  giving  my  cause  a 
fair  audit,  before  they  proceeded  to  condemnation. 

She  had  hardly  said  this,  when  she  started,  and  a  blush  over- 
spread her  sweet  face,  on  hearing,  as  I  also  did,  a  sort  of  lumber- 


THE   HISTORY   OF   CLARISSA   HARLOWE  285 

ing  noise  upon  the  stairs,  as  if  a  large  trunk  were  bringing  up 
between  two  people :  and  looking  upon  me  with  an  eye  of  con- 
cern, Blunderers  !  said  she,  they  have  brought  in  something  two 
hours  before  the  time.  —  Don't  be  surprised,  sir  —  it  is  all  to 
save  you  trouble. 

Before  I  could  speak,  in  came  Mrs.  Smith  :  O  madam,  said 
she,  what  have  you  done  ?  —  Mrs.  Lovick,^  entering,  made  the 
same  exclamation.  Lord  have  mercy  upon  me,  madam  !  cried 
I,  what  have  you  done  ?  — •  For,  she  stepping  at  the  instant  to 
the  door,  the  women  told  me  it  was  a  coffin.  —  O  Lovelace! 
that  thou  hadst  been  there  at  the  moment !  —  Thou,  the  causer 
of  all  these  shocking  scenes  !  Surely  thou  couldst  not  have  been 
less  affected  than  I,  who  have  no  guilt,  as  to  her,  to  answer  for. 

With  an  intrepidity  of  a  piece  with  the  preparation,  having 
directed  them  to  carry  it  into  her  bed-chamber,  she  returned  to 
us  :  they  were  not  to  have  brought  it  in  till  after  dark,  said  she 
—  Pray,  excuse  me,  Mr.  Belford  :  and  don't  you,  Mrs.  Lovick, 
be  concerned  :  nor  you,  Mrs.  Smith  —  why  should  you  ?  There 
is  nothing  more  in  it,  than  the  unusualness  of  the  thing.  Why 
may  we  not  be  as  reasonably  shocked  at  going  to  the  church 
where  are  the  monuments  of  our  ancestors,  with  whose  dust  we 
even  hope  our  dust  shall  be  one  day  mingled,  as  to  be  moved  at 
such  a  sight  as  this  ? 

We  all  remaining  silent,  the  women  having  their  aprons  at 
their  eyes.  Why  this  concern  for  nothing  at  all  ?  said  she  :  if  I 
am  to  be  blamed  for  any  thing,  it  is  for  shewing  too  much  solici- 
tude, as  it  may  be  thought,  for  this  earthly  part.  I  love  to 
do  every  thing  for  myself  that  I  can  do.  I  ever  did.  Every 
other  material  point  is  so  far  done,  and  taken  care  of,  that  I  have 
had  leisure  for  things  of  lesser  moment.  Minutenesses  may  be 
observed  where  greater  articles  are  not  neglected  for  them.  I 
might  have  had  this  to  order,  perhaps,  when  less  fit  to  order  it. 
I  have  no  mother,  no  sister,  no  Mrs.  Norton,  no  Miss  Howe, 
near  me.  Some  of  you  must  have  seen  this  in  a  few  days,  if  not 
now ;  perhaps  have  had  the  friendly  trouble  of  directing  it. 
And  what  is  the  difference  of  a  few  days  to  you,  when  /  am 
gratified,  rather  than  discomposed  by  it  ?     I  shall  not  die  the 

^  A  lodger  at  Mrs.  Smith's. 


286  SAMUEL  RICIL\RDSON 

sooner  for  such  a  preparation.  Should  not  every  body  that  has 
any  thing  to  bequeath  make  their  will?  And  who,  that  makes 
a  will,  should  be  afraid  of  a  coffin  ?  —  My  dear  friends  (to  the 
women),  I  have  considered  these  things;  do  not,  with  such  an 
object  before  you  as  you  have  had  in  mc  for  weeks,  give  me 
reason  to  think  you  have  not. 

How  reasonable  was  all  this  !  —  It  shewed,  indeed,  that  she 
herself  had  well  considered  it.  But  yet  we  could  not  help 
being  shocked  at  the  thoughts  of  the  coffin  thus  brought  in ; 
the  lovely  person  before  our  eyes,  who  is  in  all  Hkelihood  so  soon 
to  fill  it. 

We  were  all  silent  still,  the  women  in  grief.  I  in  a  manner 
stunned.  She  would  not  ask  me.  she  said ;  but  would  be  glad, 
since  it  had  thus  earher  than  she  had  intended  been  brought 
in.  that  her  two  good  friends  would  walk  in  and  look  upon  it. 
They  would  be  less  shocked  when  it  was  made  more  familiar 
to  their  eye  :  don't  you  lead  back,  said  she,  a  starting  steed  to 
the  object  he  is  apt  to  start  at,  in  order  to  famiharize  him  to  it, 
and  cure  his  starting  ?  The  same  reason  will  hold  in  this  case. 
Come,  my  good  friends,  I  will  lead  you  in. 

I  took  my  leave ;  telling  her  she  had  done  wrong,  vers- 
wrong ;  and  ought  not,  by  any  means,  to  have  such  an  object 
before  her. 

The  women  followed  her  in.  —  'Tis  a  strange  sex  1  nothing  is 
too  shocking  for  them  to  look  upon,  or  see  acted,  that  has  but 
novelty  and  curiosity  in  it. 

DowTi  I  hastened ;  got  a  chair ;  and  was  carried  home,  ex- 
tremely shocked  and  discomposed :  yet  weighing  the  lady's 
arguments.  I  know  not  why  I  was  so  affected  —  except,  as  she 
said,  at  the  unusualness  of  the  thing. 

WTiile  I  waited  for  a  chair.  Mrs.  Smith  came  down,  and  told 
me,  that  there  were  de\-ice5  and  inscriptions  upon  the  hd.  Lord 
bless  me  !  is  a  coffin  a  proper  subject  to  display  fancy  upon  ? 
—  But  these  great  minds  cannot  avoid  doing  extraordinary 
things  1 


THE   HISTORY   OF    CLARISSA   HARLOWE  287 

LETTER   CII 
Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Uxbridge,  Tuesd.  morn,  between  4  and  5. 

And  can  it  be.  that  this  admirable  creature  will  so  soon  leave 
this  cursed  world  !  For  cursed  I  shall  think  it.  and  more  cursed 
myself,  when  she  is  gone.  O,  Jack  I  thou  who  canst  sit  so  cool, 
and,  like  Addison's  angel,  direct,  and  even  enjoy,  the  storm, 
that  tears  up  my  happiness  by  the  roots ;  blame  me  not  for  my 
impatience,  however  unreasonable !  If  thou  knewest,  that 
already  I  feel  the  torments  of  the  damned,  in  the  remorse  that 
wrings  my  heart,  on  looking  back  upon  my  past  actions  by  her, 
thou  wouldst  not  be  the  devil  thou  art,  to  halloo  on  a  worrying 
conscience,  which,  without  thy  merciless  aggravations,  is  alto- 
gether  intolerable. 

I  know  not  what  I  write,  nor  what  I  would  write. 

Forbidden  to  attend  the  dear  creature,  yet  longing  to  see  her, 
I  would  give  the  world  to  be  admitted  once  more  to  her  beloved 
presence.  I  ride  towards  London  three  or  four  times  a  day, 
resolving,  pro  and  cou,  twenty  times  in  two  or  three  miles;  and 
at  last  ride  back ;  and,  in  \-iew  of  Uxbridge,  loathing  even  the 
kind  friend,  and  hospitable  house,  turn  my  horse's  head  again 
towards  the  town,  and  resolve  to  gratify  my  humour,  let  her 
take  it  as  she  will ;  but,  at  the  ver\-  entrance  of  it,  after  infinite 
canvassings.  once  more  alter  my  mind,  dreading  to  ofTend  and 
shock  her,  lest,  by  that  means,  I  should  curtail  a  life  so  precious. 

Woe  be  to  either  of  the  wretches  who  shall  bring  me  the  fatal 
news  that  she  is  no  more  I  For  it  is  but  too  Ukely  that  a  shriek- 
owl  so  hated  will  never  whoot  or  scream  again. 

But,  surely,  she  will  not,  she  cannot  yet  die  !  Such  a  match- 
less excellence. 

But,  once  more  —  should  the  worst  happen  —  say  not  what 
that  worst  is  —  and  I  am  gone  from  this  hated  island  —  gone 
forever  — •  and  may  eternal  —  but  I  am  crazed  alread}'  —  and 
will  therefore  conclude  myself, 

Thine  more  than  mine  own, 

(And  no  great  compliment  neither,) 

R.  L. 


288  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

LETTER  CXIII 
Mr.  Belford  [to  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Tuesday,  Sept.  5,  at  Mr.  Smith's.] 

Eight  in  the  Evening. 

I  HAD  but  just  time,  in  my  former,  to  tell  you,  that  Col.  Morden 
was  arrived.  He  was  on  horseback,  attended  by  two  servants, 
and  alighted  at  the  door,  just  as  the  clock  struck  five.  Mrs. 
Smith  was  then  below  in  the  back  shop,  weeping,  her  husband 
with  her,  who  was  as  much  affected  as  she;  Mrs.  Lovick having 
left  them  a  Httle  before,  in  tears  likewise ;  for  they  had  been 
bemoaning  one  another ;  joining  in  opinion  that  the  admirable 
lady  would  not  live  the  night  over.  She  had  told  them,  it  was 
her  opinion  too,  from  some  numbnesses  which  she  called  the 
forerunners  of  death,  and  from  an  increased  inclination  to  doze. 

The  colonel,  as  Mrs.  Smith  told  me  afterwards,  asked  with 
great  impatience,  the  moment  he  alighted,  How  Miss  Harlowe 
was  ?  She  answered,  AHve  ;  but,  she  feared,  drawing  on  apace. 
Good  God  !  said  he,  with  his  hands  and  eyes  lifted  up.  Can  I 
see  her  ?  My  name  is  Morden.  I  have  the  honour  to  be  nearly 
related  to  her.  Step  up,  pray  ;  and  let  her  know  [she  is  sensible, 
I  hope]  that  I  am  here.     Who  is  with  her  ? 

Nobody  but  her  nurse,  and  Mrs.  Lovick,  a  widow  gentle- 
woman, who  is  as  careful  of  her,  as  if  she  were  her  mother. 

And  more  careful  too,  interrupted  he,  or  she  is  not  careful  at 
all 

Except  a  gentleman  be  with  her,  one  Mr.  Belford,  continued 
Mrs.  Smith,  who  has  been  the  best  friend  she  has  had. 

If  Mr.  Belford  be  with  her,  surely  I  may  —  but  pray  step  up, 
and  let  Mr.  Belford  know,  that  I  shall  take  it  for  a  favour  to 
speak  with  him  first. 

Mrs.  Smith  came  up  to  me  in  my  new  apartment.  I  had  but 
just  dispatched  your  servant,  and  was  asking  her  nurse,  if  I  might 
again  be  admitted  ?  Who  answered,  that  she  was  dozing  in  the 
elbow-chair,  having  refused  to  he  down,  saying,  she  should  soon, 
she  hoped,  lie  down  for  good. 


THE   HISTORY   OF   CLARISSA   HARLOWE  289 

The  colonel,  who  is  really  a  fine  gentleman,  received  me  with 
great  poHteness. 


Mrs.  Smith,  at  his  request,  stept  up,  and  brought  us  down 
word,  that  Mrs.  Lovick  and  her  nurse  were  with  her ;  and  that 
she  was  in  so  sound  a  sleep,  leaning  upon  the  former  in  her  elbow- 
chair,  that  she  neither  heard  her  enter  the  room,  nor  go  out.  The 
colonel  begged,  if  not  improper,  that  he  might  see  her,  though 
sleeping. 

She  believed  he  might,  she  answered  ;  for  her  chair's  back  was 
towards  the  door. 

Mrs.  Smith,  stepping  up  before  us,  bid  Mrs.  Lovick  and  nurse 
not  to  stir,  when  we  entered  :  and  then  we  went  up  softly  together. 

We  beheld  the  lady,  in  a  charming  attitude.  Dressed,  as  I 
told  you  before,  in  her  virgin  white,  she  was  sitting  in  her  elbow- 
chair,  Mrs.  Lovick  close  by  her  in  another  chair,  with  her  left 
arm  round  her  neck,  supporting  it,  as  it  were ;  for,  it  seems,  the 
lady  had  bid  her  do  so,  saying.  She  had  been  a  mother  to  her, 
and  she  would  delight  herself  in  thinking  she  was  in  her  mamma's 
arms  ;  for  she  found  herself  drowsy  ;  perhaps,  she  said,  for  the 
last  time  she  should  ever  be  so. 

One  faded  cheek  rested  upon  the  good  woman's  bosom,  the 
kindly  warmth  of  which  had  overspread  it  with  a  faint,  but 
charming  flush  ;  the  other  paler,  and  hollow,  as  if  already  iced 
over  by  death.  Her  hands  white  as  the  lily,  with  her  meandering 
veins  more  transparently  blue  than  ever  I  had  seen  even  hers, 
(veins  so  soon,  alas  !  to  be  choaked  up  by  the  congealment  of  that 
purple  stream,  which  already  so  languidly  creeps,  rather  than 
flows  through  them  !)  her  hands  hanging  lifelessly,  one  before 
her,  the  other  grasped  by  the  right  hand  of  the  kind  widow, 
whose  tears  bedewed  the  sweet  face  which  her  motherly  bosom 
supported,  though  unfelt  by  the  fair  sleeper ;  and  either  insen- 
sibly to  the  good  woman,  or  what  she  would  not  disturb  her  to 
wipe  ofT,  or  to  change  her  posture :  her  aspect  was  sweetly  calm 
and  serene :  and  though  she  started  now-and-then,  yet  her  sleep 
seemed  easy ;  her  breath  indeed  short  and  quick  ;  but  tolerably 
free,  and  not  like  that  of  a  dying  person. 


290  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

In  this  heart-moving  attitude  she  appeared  to  us  when  we 
approached  her,  and  came  to  have  her  lovely  face  before  us. 

The  colonel,  sighing  often,  gazed  upon  her  with  his  arms 
folded,  and  with  the  most  profound  and  affectionate  attention ; 
till  at  last,  on  her  starting,  and  fetching  her  breath  with  greater 
difficulty  than  before,  he  retired  to  a  screen,  that  was  drawn 
before  her  house,  as  she  calls  it,  which,  as  I  have  heretofore 
observed,  stands  under  one  of  the  windows. 

Retiring  thither,  he  drew  out  his  handkerchief,  and,  over- 
whelmed with  grief,  seemed  unable  to  speak  :  but,  on  casting  his 
eye  behind  the  screen,  he  soon  broke  silence ;  for,  struck  with  the 
shape  of  the  coffin,  he  lifted  up  a  purplish-coloured  cloth  that 
was  spread  over  it,  and,  starting  back,  Good  God  !  said  he,  what's 
here  ! 

The  lady  fetched  a  profound  sigh,  and,  starting,  it  broke  off 
our  talk ;  and  the  colonel  then  withdrew  farther  behind  the 
screen,  that  his  sudden  appearance  might  not  surprise  her. 

Where  am  I  ?  said  she.  How  drowsy  I  am  !  How  long  have  I 
dozed?  Don't  go,  sir  (for  I  was  retiring).  I  am  very  stupid, 
and  shall  be  more  and  more  so,  I  suppose. 


If,  madam,  your  cousin  Morden  should  come,  you  would  be 
glad  to  see  him,  I  presume  ?  ^ 

I  am  too  weak  to  wish  to  see  my  cousin  now.  It  would  but 
discompose  me,  and  him  too.  Yet,  if  he  come  while  I  can  see,  I 
will  see  him,  were  it  but  to  thank  him  for  former  favours,  and  for 
his  present  kind  intentions  to  me. 

But  if  he  come,  what  shall  I  do  about  the  screen  ? 

The  colonel  (who  heard  all  this)  sent  in  his  name ;  and  I, 
pretending  to  go  down  to  him,  introduced  the  afflicted  gentleman ; 
she  having  first  ordered  the  screen  to  be  put  as  close  to  the  win- 
dow as  possible,  that  he  might  not  see  that  was  behind  it ;  while 
he,  having  heard  what  she  had  said  about  it,  was  determined  to 
take  no  notice  of  it. 

He  folded  the  angel  in  his  arms  as  she  sat,  dropping  down  on 

1  Spoken  by  Belford. 


THE   HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA   HARLOWE  291 

one  knee ;  for,  supporting  herself  upon  the  two  elbows  of  the  chair, 
she  attempted  to  rise,  but  could  not.  Excuse,  my  dear  cousin, 
said  she,  excuse  me,  that  I  cannot  stand  up  —  I  did  not  expect 
this  favour  now.  But  I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity  to  thank 
you  for  all  your  generous  goodness  to  me. 

I  never,  my  best  beloved  and  dearest  cousin,  said  he  (with  eyes 
running  over)  shall  forgive  myself,  that  I  did  not  attend  you 
sooner.  Little  did  I  think  you  were  so  ill ;  nor  do  any  of  your 
friends  believe  it.     If  they  did  — 

//  tJiey  did,  repeated  she,  interrupting  him,  I  should  have  had 
more  compassion  from  them.  I  am  sure  I  should.  But  pray, 
sir,  how  did  you  leave  them  ?  Are  you  reconciled  to  them  ?  If 
you  arc  not,  I  beg,  if  you  love  your  poor  Clarissa,  that  you  will : 
for  every  widened  difference  augments  but  my  fault :  since 
that  is  the  foundation  of  all. 


LETTER  CXX 
Mr.  Belford  to  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Thursday  night. 

I  MAY  as  well  try  to  write ;  since,  were  I  to  go  to  bed,  I  shall  not 
sleep.  I  never  had  such  a  weight  of  grief  upon  my  mind  in  my 
life,  as  upon  the  demise  of  this  admirable  woman,  whose  soul  is 
now  rejoicing  in  the  regions  of  light. 

You  may  be  glad  to  know  the  particulars  of  her  happy  exit.  I 
will  try  to  proceed  ;  for  all  is  hush  and  still ;  the  family  retired  : 
but  not  one  of  them,  and  least  of  all  her  poor  cousin,  I  dare  say, 
to  rest. 

At  four  o'clock,  as  I  mentioned  in  my  last,  I  was  sent  for  down  : 
and,  as  thou  usedst  to  like  my  descriptions,  I  will  give  thee  the 
woeful  scene  that  presented  itself  to  me,  as  I  approached  the  bed. 

The  colonel  w^as  the  first  that  took  my  attention,  kneeling  on 
the  side  of  the  bed,  the  lady's  right  hand  in  both  his  with  his  face 
covered,  bathing  it  with  his  tears ;  although  she  had  been  com- 
forting him,  as  the  women  since  told  me,  in  elevated  strains, 
but  broken  accents. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bed  sat  the  good  widow ;  her  face  over- 
whelmed with  tears,  leaning  her  head  against  the  bed's  head  in  a 


292  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

most  disconsolate  manner ;  and  turning  her  face  to  me  as  soon  as 
she  saw  me,  O,  Mr.  Belford,  cried  she,  with  folded  hands  —  The 
dear  lady  —  A  heavy  sob  permitted  her  not  to  say  more. 

Mrs.  Smith,  with  clasped  fingers,  and  uphfted  eyes,  as  if  im- 
ploring help  from  the  only  power  which  could  give  it,  was  kneeling 
down  by  the  bed's  feet,  tears  in  large  drops  trickhng  down  her 
cheeks. 

Her  nurse  was  kneeling  between  the  widow  and  Mrs.  Smith, 
her  arms  extended.  In  one  hand  she  held  an  ineffectual  cordial, 
which  she  had  just  been  offering  to  her  dying  mistress ;  her  face 
was  swoln  with  weeping  (though  used  to  such  scenes  as  this)  ;  and 
she  turned  her  eyes  towards  me,  as  if  she  called  upon  me,  by  them, 
to  join  in  the  helpless  sorrow,  a  fresh  stream  bursting  from  them 
as  I  approached  the  bed. 

The  maid  of  the  house  with  her  face  upon  her  folded  arms,  as 
she  stood  leaning  against  the  wainscot,  more  audibly  exprest  her 
grief  than  any  of  the  others. 

The  lady  had  been  silent  a  few  minutes,  and  speechless  as  they 
thought,  moving  her  lips  without  uttering  a  word  ;  one  hand,  as  I 
said,  in  her  cousin's.  But  when  Mrs.  Lovick  on  my  approach 
pronounced  my  name,  O  !  Mr.  Belford,  said  she,  with  a  faint 
inward  voice,  but  very  distinct  nevertheless  —  Now  !  —  Now  ! 
[in  broken  periods  she  spoke]  —  I  bless  God  for  his  mercies  to  his 
poor  creature  —  will  all  soon  be  over  —  a  few  —  a  very  few 
moments  —  will  end  this  strife  —  and  I  shall  be  happy. 

Comfort  here,  sir  —  turning  her  head  to  the  colonel  —  comfort 
my  cousin  —  see  !  the  blame  —  able  kindness  —  he  would  not 
wish  me  to  be  happy  —  so  soon ! 

Here  she  stopt,  for  two  or  three  minutes,  earnestly  looking  upon 
him :  then  resuming.  My  dearest  cousin,  said  she,  be  comforted 
—  what  is  dying  but  the  common  lot  ?  —  The  mortal  frame  may 
seem  to  labour  —  but  that  is  all !  —  It  is  not  so  hard  to  die,  as  I 
believed  it  to  be  !  —  The  preparation  is  the  difficulty  —  I  bless 
God,  I  have  had  time  for  that  —  the  rest  is  worse  to  beholders, 
than  to  me  !  —  I  am  all  blessed  hope  —  hope  itself.  She  looked 
what  she  said,  a  sweet  smile  beaming  over  her  countenance. 

After  a  short  silence,  Once  more,  my  dear  cousin,  said  she,  but 
still  in  broken  accents,  commend  me  most  dutifully  to  my  father 


THE  HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA   HARLOWE  293 

and  mother  —  there  she  stopt.  And  then  proceeding  —  To  my 
sister,  to  my  brother,  to  my  uncles  —  and  tell  them,  I  bless  them 
with  my  parting  breath  —  for  all  their  goodness  to  me  —  even 
for  their  displeasure  —  I  bless  them  —  most  happy  has  been  to 
me  my  punishment  here  !     Happy  indeed  ! 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  hfting  up  her  eyes,  and  the 
hand  her  cousin  held  not  between  his.  Then,  O  death !  said  she, 
where  is  thy  sting  !  [The  words  I  remember  to  have  heard  in  the 
burial  service  read  over  my  uncle  and  poor  Belton].  And  after  a 
pause  —  It  is  good  for  me  that  I  was  afflicted !  Words  of  Scripture 
I  suppose. 

Then  turning  towards  us,  who  were  lost  in  speechless  sorrow  — 
O  dear,  dear  gentlemen,  said  she,  you  know  not  what  foretastes  — 
what  assurances  —  and  there  she  again  stopped,  and  looked  up, 
as  if  in  a  thankful  rapture,  sweetly  smiling. 

Then  turning  her  head  towards  me  — -  Do  you,  sir,  tell  your 
friend,  that  I  forgive  him  !  And  I  pray  to  God  to  forgive  him  !  — 
Again  pausing,  and  hfting  up  her  eyes,  as  if  praying  that  he  would. 
Let  him  know  how  happily  I  die  !  —  And  that  such  as  my  own,  I 
wish  to  be  his  last  hour. 

She  was  again  silent  for  a  few  moments  :  and  then  resuming  — 
My  sight  fails  me  !  —  Your  voices  only  —  [for  we  both  applauded 
her  Christian,  her  divine  frame,  though  in  accents  as  broken  as 
her  own]  :  and  the  voice  of  grief  is  alike  in  all.  Is  not  this  Mr. 
Mordcn's  hand  ?  pressing  one  of  his  with  that  he  had  just  let  go. 
Which  is  Mr.  Belford's  ?  holding  out  the  other.  I  gave  her  mine. 
God  Almighty  bless  you  both,  said  she,  and  make  you  both  —  in 
your  last  hour  —  for  you  must  come  to  this  —  happy  as  I  am. 

She  paused  again,  her  breath  growing  shorter ;  and,  after  a  few 
minutes,  And  now,  my  dearest  cousin,  give  me  your  hand  — 
nearer  —  still  nearer  — •  drawing  it  towards  her  ;  and  she  pressed 
it  with  her  dying  lips  —  God  protect  you,  dear,  dear  sir  —  and 
once  more  receive  my  best  and  most  grateful  thanks  —  and  tell 
my  dear  Miss  Howe  —  and  vouchsafe  to  see  and  to  tell  my 
worthy  Norton  —  she  will  be  one  day,  I  fear  not,  though  now 
lowly  in  her  fortunes,  a  saint  in  heaven  —  tell  them  both,  that  I 
remember  them  with  thankful  blessings  in  my  last  moments  !  — 
And  pray  God  to  give  them  happiness  here  for  many,  many  years, 


294  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

for  the  sake  of  their  friends  and  lovers ;  and  an  heavenly  crown 
hereafter ;  and  such  assurances  of  it,  as  I  have,  through  the  all- 
satisfying  merits  of  my  blessed  Redeemer. 

Her  sweet  voice  and  broken  periods,  methinks,  still  fill  my  ears, 
and  never  will  be  out  of  my  memory. 

After  a  short  silence,  in  a  more  broken  and  faint  accent  —  And 
you,  Mr.  Belford,  pressing  my  hand,  may  God  preserve  you,  and 
make  you  sensible  of  all  your  errors  —  you  see,  in  me,  how  all 
ends  —  may  you  be  —  and  down  sunk  her  head  upon  her  pillow, 
she  fainting  away,  and  drawing  from  us  her  hands. 

We  thought  she  was  then  gone ;  and  each  gave  way  to  a  violent 
burst  of  grief. 

But  soon  shewing  signs  of  returning  life,  our  attention  was 
again  engaged ;  and  I  besought  her,  when  a  little  recovered,  to 
complete  in  my  favour  her  half -pronounced  blessing.  She  waved 
her  hand  to  us  both,  and  bowed  her  head  six  several  times,  as  we 
have  since  recollected,  as  if  distinguishing  every  person  present ; 
not  forgetting  the  nurse  and  the  maid-servant ;  the  latter  having 
approached  the  bed,  weeping,  as  if  crouding  in  for  the  divine 
lady's  last  blessing ;  and  she  spoke  faltering  and  inwardly  — 
Bless  —  bless  —  bless  —  you  all  —  and  —  now  —  and  now  — 
[holding  up  her  almost  Hfeless  hands  for  the  last  time]  Come  —  0 
come  —  blessed  Lord  —  Jesus  !  • 

And  with  these  words,  the  last  but  half-pronounced,  expired : 
—  such  a  smile,  such  a  charming  serenity  overspreading  her  sweet 
face  at  the  instant,  as  seemed  to  manifest  her  eternal  happiness 
already  begun. 

O  Lovelace  !  —  But  I  can  write  no  more  ! 

LETTER   CXXXIX 
Colonel  Morden  to  John  Belford,  Esq. 

Sunday  night,  Sept.  lo. 
Dear  Sir, 

According  to  my  promise,  I  send  you  an  account  of  matters 

here.     Poor  Mrs.  Norton  was  so  very  ill  upon  the  road,  that 

slowly  as  the  hearse  moved,  and  the  chariot  followed,  I  was 

afraid  we  should  not  have  got  her  to  St.  Alban's. 


THE   HISTORY   OF   CLARISSA   HARLOWE  295 

When  we  were  within  five  miles  of  Harlowe  Place,  I  put  on  a 
hand-gallop.  I  ordered  the  hearse  to  proceed  more  slowly  still, 
the  cross-road  we  were  in  being  rough ;  and  having  more  time 
before  us  than  I  wanted ;  for  I  wished  not  the  hearse  to  be  in  till 
near  dusk.  I  got  to  Harlowe  Place  about  four  o'clock.  You 
may  beUeve  I  found  a  mournful  house.  You  desire  me  to  be 
very  minute. 

At  my  entrance  into  the  court,  they  were  all  in  motion.  Every 
servant  whom  I  saw  had  swelled  eyes,  and  looked  with  so  much 
concern,  that  at  first  I  apprehended  some  new  disaster  had 
happened  in  the  family.  Mr.  John  and  Mr.  Antony  Harlowe, 
and  Mrs.  Hervey,  were  there.  They  all  helped  on  one  another's 
grief,  as  they  had  before  done  each  other's  hardness  of  heart. 

My  cousin  James  met  me  at  the  entrance  of  the  hall.  His 
countenance  expressed  a  fiixed  concern ;  and  he  desired  me  to 
excuse  his  behaviour  the  last  time  I  was  there. 

My  cousin  Arabella  came  to  me  full  of  tears  and  grief. 

0  cousin  !  said  she,  hanging  upon  my  arm,  I  dare  not  ask  you 
any  questions  !  —  About  the  approach  of  the  hearse,  I  suppose 
she  meant. 

1  myself  was  full  of  grief ;  and  without  going'farther  or  speaking, 
sat  down  in  the  hall  in  the  first  chair. 

The  brother  sat  down  on  one  hand  of  me,  the  sister  on  the  other. 
Both  were  silent.     The  latter  in  tears. 

Mr.  Antony  Harlowe  came  to  me  soon  after.  His  face  was 
overspread  with  all  the  appearance  of  woe.  He  requested  me 
to  walk  into  the  parlour ;  where,  as  he  said,  were  all  his  fellow 
mourners. 

I  attended  him  in.  My  cousins  James  and  Arabella  followed 
me. 

A  perfect  concert  of  grief,  as  I  may  say,  broke  out  the  moment  I 
entered  the  parlour. 

My  cousin  Harlowe,  the  dear  creature's  father,  as  soon  as  he 
saw  me,  said,  O  cousin,  cousin,  of  all  our  family,  you  are  the  only 
one  who  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with  !  —  You  are  a 
happy  man ! 

The  poor  mother,  bowing  her  head  to  me  in  speechless  grief, 
sat  with  her  handkerchief  held  to  her  eyes,  with  one  hand.     The 


296  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

other  hand  was  held  by  her  sister  Hervey,  between  both  hers ; 
Mrs.  Hervey  weeping  upon  it. 

Near  the  window  sat  Mr.  John  Harlowe,  his  face  and  his  body 
turned  from  the  sorrowing  company;   his  eyes  red  and  swelled. 

My  cousin  Antony,  at  his  re-entering  the  parlour,  went  to- 
wards Mrs.  Harlowe  —  Don't  —  dear  sister  !  said  he.  —  Then 
towards  my  cousin  Harlowe  —  Don't  —  dear  brother  !  —  Don't 
thus  give  way  —  and  without  being  able  to  say  another  word, 
went  to  a  corner  of  the  parlour,  and  wanting  himself  the  comfort 
he  would  fain  have  given,  sunk  into  a  chair,  and  audibly  sobbed. 

Miss  Arabella  followed  her  uncle  Antony,  as  he  walked  in 
before  me,  and  seemed  as  if  she  would  have  spoken  to  the  pierced 
mother  some  words  of  comfort.  But  she  was  unable  to  utter 
them,  and  got  behind  her  mother's  chair ;  and  inclining  her  face 
over  it,  on  the  unhappy  lady's  shoulder,  seemed  to  claim  the  con- 
solation that  indulgent  parent  used,  but  then  was  unable,  to 
afford  her. 

Young  Mr.  Harlowe,  with  all  his  vehemence  of  spirit,  was  now 
subdued.  His  self-reproaching  conscience,  no  doubt,  was  the 
cause  of  it. 


They  all  joined  in  a  kind  of  melancholy  chorus,  and  each  ac- 
cused him  and  herself,  and  some  of  them  one  another.  But  the 
eyes  of  all,  in  turn,  were  cast  upon  my  cousin  James,  as  the  person 
who  had  kept  up  the  general  resentment  against  so  sweet  a 
creature.     While  he  was  hardly  able  to  bear  his  own  remorse. 

About  six  o'clock  the  hearse  came  to  the  outward  gate  —  the 
parish-church  is  at  some  distance  ;  but  the  wind  setting  fair,  the 
afflicted  family  were  struck,  just  before  it  came,  into  a  fresh  fit  of 
grief,  on  hearing  the  funeral  bell  tolled  in  a  very  solemn  manner. 
A  respect,  as  it  proved,  and  as  they  all  guessed,  paid  to  the 
memory  of  the  dear  deceased,  out  of  officious  love,  as  the  hearse 
passed  near  the  church. 

Judge,  when  their  grief  was  so  great  in  expectation  of  it,  what 
it  must  be  when  it  arrived. 

A  servant  came  in  to  acquaint  us  with  what  its  lumbering  heavy 
noise  up  the  paved  inner  courtyard  apprised  us  of  before.     He 


THE   HISTORY   OF   CLARISSA   HARLOWE  297 

spoke  not.  He  could  not  speak.  He  looked,  bowed  and  with- 
drew. 

I  stept  out.  No  one  else  could  then  stir.  Her  brother,  how- 
ever, soon  followed  me.  When  I  came  to  the  door,  I  beheld  a 
sight  very  affecting. 

You  have  heard,  sir,  how  universally  my  dear  cousin  was  be- 
loved. By  the  poor  and  middling  sort  especially,  no  young  lady 
was  ever  so  much  beloved.  And  with  reason  :  she  was  the  com- 
mon patroness  of  all  the  honest  poor  in  her  neighbourhood. 

It  is  natural  for  us,  in  every  deep  and  sincere  grief,  to  interest 
all  we  know  in  what  is  so  concerning  to  ourselves.  The  servants 
of  the  family,  it  seems,  had  told  their  friends,  and  those  theirs, 
that  though,  living,  their  dear  young  lady  could  not  be  received 
nor  looked  upon,  her  body  was  permitted  to  be  brought  home: 
so  that  the  hearse,  and  the  solemn  tolling  of  the  bell,  had  drawn 
together  at  least  fifty  of  the  neighbouring  men,  women,  and 
children,  and  some  of  good  appearance.  Not  a  soul  of  them,  it 
seems,  with  a  dry  eye,  and  each  lamenting  the  death  of  this 
admired  lady,  who,  as  I  am  told,  never  stirred  out  hit  somebody  was 
the  better  for  her. 

These,  when  the  coffin  was  taken  out  of  the  hearse,  crowding 
about  it,  hindered  for  a  few  moments  its  being  carried  in ;  the 
young  people  struggling  who  should  bear  it ;  and  yet,  with 
respectful  whisperings,  rather  than  clamorous  contention.  A 
mark  of  veneration  I  had  never  before  seen  paid,  upon  any  occa- 
sion, in  all  my  travels,  from  the  underbred  many,  from  whom, 
noise  is  generally  inseparable  in  all  their  emulations. 

At  last  six  maidens  were  permitted  to  carry  it  in  by  the  six 
handles. 

The  corpse  was  thus  borne,  with  the  most  solemn  respect,  into 
the  hall,  and  placed  for  the  present  upon  two  stools  there.  The 
plates,  and  emblems,  and  inscription,  set  every  one  gazing  upon 
it,  and  admiring  it.  The  more,  when  they  were  told  that  all 
was  of  her  own  ordering.  They  wished  to  be  permitted  a  sight 
of  the  corpse ;  but  rather  mentioned  this  as  their  wish  than  as 
their  hope.  When  they  had  all  satisfied  their  curiosity,  and 
remarked  upon  the  emblems,  they  dispersed  with  blessings  upon 
her  memory,  and  with  tears  and  lamentations ;  pronouncing  her 


298  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

to  be  happy ;  and  inferring,  were  she  not  so,  what  would  become 
of  them  ?  While  others  ran  over  with  repetitions  of  the  good 
she  delighted  to  do.  Nor  were  there  wanting  those  among 
them,  who  heaped  curses  upon  the  man  who  was  the  author 
of  her  fall. 

The  servants  of  the  family  then  got  about  the  coffin.  They 
could  not  before  :  and  that  afforded  a  new  scene  of  sorrow  :  but 
a  silent  one ;  for  they  spoke  only  by  their  eyes,  and  by  sighs, 
looking  upon  the  lid,  and  upon  one  another,  by  turns,  with  hands 
lifted  up.  The  presence  of  their  young  master  possibly  might 
awe  them,  and  cause  their  grief  to  be  expressed  only  in  dumb 
show. 

But  when  the  corpse  was  carried  into  the  lesser  parlour  adjoin- 
ing to  the  hall,  which  she  used  to  call  her  parlour,  and  put  upon  a 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  the  father  and  mother,  the 
two  uncles,  her  aunt  Hervey,  and  her  sister,  came  in,  joining 
her  brother  and  me,  with  trembling  feet,  and  eager  woe,  the  scene 
was  still  more  affecting.  Their  sorrow  was  heightened,  no  doubt, 
by  the  remembrance  of  their  unforgiving  severity :  and  now 
seeing  before  them  the  receptacle  that  contained  the  glory  of  their 
family,  who  so  lately  was  driven  thence  by  their  indiscreet  vio- 
lence ;  never,  never  more  to  be  restored  to  them!  no  wonder  that 
their  grief  was  more  than  common  grief. 

No  wonder  that  the  dear  departed,  who  foresaw  the  remorse 
that  would  fall  to  the  lot  of  this  unhappy  family  when  they  came 
to  have  the  news  of  her  death  confirmed  to  them,  was  so  grieved 
for  their  apprehended  grief,  and  endeavoured  to  comfort  them  by  her 
posthumous  letters.  But  it  was  still  a  greater  generosity  in  her  to 
try  to  excuse  them  to  me,  as  she  did,  when  we  were  alone  together, 
a  few  hours  before  she  died  ;  and  to  aggravate  more  than  (as  far  as 
I  can  find)  she  ought  to  have  done,  the  only  error  she  was  ever 
guilty  of.  The  more  freely  however  perhaps  (exalted  creature  !) 
that  I  might  think  the  better  of  her  friends,  although  at  her 
own  expense.     I  am,  dear  sir. 

Your  faithful  and  obedient  servant, 
Wm.  Morden. 


THE   HISTORY  OF   CLARISSA   HARLOWE  299 

LETTER   CLXXVI 

Translation  of  a  Letter  from  F.  G.  de  la  Tour 
To  John  Belford,  Esq.,  Near  Soho-Square,  London 

Trent,  Dec.  18.  N.S. 
Sir, 

I  HAVE  melancholy  news  to  inform  you  of,  by  order  of  the 
Chevalier  Lovelace.  He  shewed  me  his  letter  to  you  before  he 
sealed  it ;  signifying,  that  he  was  to  meet  the  Chevaher  Morden 
on  the  15th.  Wherefore,  as  the  occasion  of  the  meeting  is  so 
well  known  to  you,  I  shall  say  nothing  of  it  here. 

I  had  taken  care  to  have  ready,  within  a  little  distance,  a 
surgeon  and  his  assistant,  to  whom,  under  an  oath  of  secrecy,  I 
had  revealed  the  matter  (though  I  did  not  own  it  to  the  two  gentle- 
men) ;  so  that  they  were  prepared  with  bandages,  and  all  things 
proper.  For  well  was  I  acquainted  with  the  bravery  and  skill 
of  my  chevalier;  and  had  heard  the  character  of  the  other; 
and  knew  the  animosity  of  both.  A  post-chaise  was  ready,  with 
each  of  their  footmen,  at  a  little  distance. 

The  two  chevaliers  came  exactly  at  their  time :  they  were 
attended  by  Monsieur  Margate  (the  colonel's  gentleman)  and 
myself.  They  had  given  orders  over  night,  and  now  repeated 
them  in  each  other's  presence,  that  we  should  observe  a  strict 
impartiality  between  them :  and  that  if  one  fell,  each  of  us 
should  look  upon  himself,  as  to  any  needful  help  or  retreat, 
as  the  servant  of  the  survivor,  and  take  his  commands 
accordingly. 

After  a  few  compliments,  both  the  gentlemen,  with  the  greatest 
presence  of  mind  that  ever  I  beheld  in  men,  stript  to  their  shirts, 
and  drew. 

They  parried  with  equal  judgment  several  passes.  My  chevalier 
drew  the  first  blood,  making  a  desperate  push,  which  by  a  sudden 
turn  of  his  antagonist,  missed  going  clear  through  him,  and 
wounded  him  on  the  fleshy  part  of  the  ribs  of  his  right  side; 
which  part  the  sword  tore  out,  being  on  the  extremity  of  the  body : 
but,  before  my  chevalier  could  recover  himself,  the  colonel,  in 
return,  pushed  him  into  the  inside  of  the  left  arm,  near    the 


300  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

shoulder :  and  the  sword  (raking  his  breast  as  it  passed)  being 
followed  by  a  great  effusion  of  blood,  the  colonel  said,  sir,  I 
believe  you  have  enough. 

]\Iy  chevalier  swore  by  G — d,  he  was  not  hurt :  'twas  a  pin's 
point :  and  so  made  another  pass  at  his  antagonist ;  which  he, 
with  a  surprising  dexterity,  received  under  his  arm,  and  run  my 
dear  chevalier  into  the  body :  who  immediately  fell ;  saying, 
The  luck  is  yours,  sir  —  O  my  beloved  Clarissa  !  —  Xow  art 
thou  —  inwardly  he  spoke  three  or  four  words  more.  His  sword 
dropt  from  his  hand.  ]\Ir.  ]\lorden  threw  his  down,  and  ran  to 
him,  saying  in  French  —  Ah,  monsieur  I  you  are  a  dead  man  !  — ■ 
Call  to  God  for  mercy  ! 

We  gave  the  signal  agreed  upon  to  the  footmen ;  and  they  to 
the  surgeons ;  who  instantly  came  up. 

Colonel  Morden,  I  found,  was  too  well  used  to  the  bloody 
work;  for  he  was  as  cool  as  if  nothing  extraordinary  had  hap- 
pened, assisting  the  surgeons  though  his  own  wound  bled  much. 
But  my  dear  chevaher  fainted  away  two  or  three  times  running, 
and  vomited  blood  besides. 

However,  they  stopped  the  bleeding  for  the  present ;  and  we 
helped  him  into  the  voiture  :  and  then  the  colonel  suffered  his 
own  wound  to  be  dressed ;  and  appeared  concerned  that  my 
chevalier  was  between  whiles  (when  he  could  speak,  and  struggle) 
extremely  outrageous.  —  Poor  gentleman  !  he  had  made  quite 
sure  of  victor}'  ' 

The  colonel,  against  the  surgeons'  advice,  would  mount  on 
horseback  to  pass  into  the  Venetian  territories ;  and  generously 
gave  me  a  purse  of  gold  to  pay  the  surgeons ;  desiring  me  to 
make  a  present  to  the  footman ;  and  to  accept  of  the  remainder, 
as  a  mark  of  his  satisfaction  in  my  conduct,  and  in  my  care  and 
tenderness  of  my  master. 

The  surgeons  told  him,  that  my  chevalier  could  not  live  over 
the  day. 

When  the  colonel  took  leave  of  him,  Mr.  Lovelace  said,  you 
have  well  revenged  the  dear  creature. 

I  have,  sir,  said  Mr.  Morden  :  and  perhaps  shall  be  sorry 
that  you  called  upon  me  to  this  work,  while  I  was  balancing 
whether  to  obey,  or  disobey,  the  dear  angel. 


THE   HISTORY  OF    CLARISSA   HARLOWE  301 

There  is  a  fate  in  it  I  replied  my  chevalier  —  a  cursed  fate  I  — 
Or  this  could  not  have  been  !  —  But  be  ye  all  witnesses,  that  I 
have  provoked  my  destiny,  and  acknowledge  that  I  fall  by  a 
man  of  honour. 

Sir,  said  the  colonel,  with  the  piety  of  a  confessor,  (wringing 
Mr.  Lovelace's  hand)  snatch  these  few  fleeting  moments,  and 
commend  yourself  to  God. 

And  so  he  rode  off. 

The  voiture  proceeded  slowly  with  my  chevaher ;  yet  the  mo- 
tion set  both  his  wounds  bleeding  afresh ;  and  it  was  with  diffi- 
culty they  again  stopped  the  blood. 

We  brought  him  alive  to  the  nearest  cottage ;  and  he  gave 
orders  to  me  to  dispatch  to  you  the  packet  I  herewith  send  sealed 
up  ;  and  bid  me  write  to  you  the  particulars  of  this  most  unhappy 
affair ;  and  give  you  thanks,  in  his  name,  for  all  your  favours  and 
friendship  to  him. 

Contrary  to  all  expectation,  he  lived  over  the  night :  but 
suffered  much,  as  well  from  his  impatience  and  disappointment,  as 
from  his  wounds;  for  he  seemed  very  ununlling  to  die. 

He  was  dehrious,  at  times,  in  the  two  last  hours ;  and  then 
several  times  cried  out,  as  if  he  had  seen  some  frightful  spectre, 
Take  her  away  !  Take  her  away  !  but  named  nobody.  And 
sometimes  praised  some  lady  (that  Clarissa,  I  suppose,  whom  he 
had  invoked  when  he  received  his  death's  wound)  calling  her. 
Sweet  excellence  !  Divine  creature  !  Fair  sufferer  !  — •  And  once  he 
said.  Look  down,  blessed  spirit,  look  down ;  —  And  there  stopt ; 
—  his  lips,  however,  moving. 

At  nine  in  the  morning,  he  was  seized  with  convulsions,  and 
fainted  away ;  and  it  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  he  came- 
out  of  them. 

His  few  last  words  I  must  not  omit,  as  they  shew  an  ultimate 
composure ;  which  may  administer  some  consolation  to  his 
honourable  friends. 

Blessed  —  said  he,  addressing  himself  no  doubt  to  heaven  ;  for 
his  dying  eyes  were  lifted  up  —  a  strong  convulsion  prevented 
him  for  a  few  moments  sa\-ing  more  —  but  recovering,  he  again, 
with  great  fervor,  (lifting  up  his  eyes,  and  his  spread  hands) 
pronounced  the  word  blessed !     Then  in  a  seeming  ejaculation,  he 


302  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

spoke  inwardly  so  as  not  to  be  understood :   at  last  he  distinctly 
pronounced  these  three  words, 

LET    THIS    EXPIATE  ! 

And  then,  his  head  sinking  on  his  pillow,  he  expired,  at  about  half 
an  hour  after  ten. 

He  little  thought,  poor  gentleman  !  his  end  so  near :  so  had 
given  no  direction  about  his  body.  I  have  caused  it  to  be  em- 
bowelled,  and  deposited  in  a  vault,  till  I  have  orders  from  England. 

This  is  a  favour  that  was  procured  with  difficulty ;  and  would 
have  been  refused,  had  he  not  been  an  Englishman  of  rank:  a 
nation  with  reason  respected  in  every  Austrian  government  — 
for  he  had  refused  ghostly  attendance,  and  the  sacraments  in  the 
catholic  way.     May  his  soul  be  happy,  I  pray  God  ! 

I  have  had  some  trouble  also  on  account  of  the  manner  of  his 
death,  from  the  magistracy  here ;  who  have  taken  the  requisite 
informations  in  the  affair.  And  it  has  cost  some  money.  Of 
which,  and  of  my  dear  chevalier's  effects,  I  will  give  you  a  faith- 
ful account  in  my  next.  And  so,  waiting  at  this  place  your 
commands,  I  am,  sir, 

Your  most  faithful  and  obedient  servant, 

F.  J.  DE  La  Tour. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,  A  FOUNDLING 

HENRY   FIELDING 

BOOK  I 

CONTAINING  AS  MUCH  OF  THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  FOUNDLING 

AS    IS    NECESSARY     OR    PROPER    TO    ACQUAINT    THE 

READER  WITH  IN  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THIS  HISTORY 

CHAPTER  I 

The  Introduction  to  the  Work,  or  Bill  of  Fare  to  the  Feast 

An  author  ought  to  consider  himself,  not  as  a  gentleman  who 
gives  a  private  or  eleemosynary  treat,  but  rather  as  one  who 
keeps  a  public  ordinary,  at  which  all  persons  are  welcome  for 
their  money.  In  the  former  case,  it  is  well  known  that  the 
entertainer  provides  what  fare  he  pleases ;  and  though  this 
should  be  ver^'  indifferent,  and  utterly  disagreeable  to  the  taste 
of  his  company,  they  must  not  find  any  fault ;  nay,  on  the  con- 
trary, good  breeding  forces  them  outwardly  to  approve  and  to 
commend  whatever  is  set  before  them.  Now  the  contrary  of 
this  happens  to  the  master  of  an  ordinary.  Men  who  pay  for 
what  they  eat  will  insist  on  gratifying  their  palates,  however 
nice  and  whimsical  these  may  prove ;  and  if  everything  is  not 
agreeable  to  their  taste,  will  challenge  a  right  to  censure,  to  abuse, 
and  to  d — n  their  dinner  without  control. 

To  prevent,  therefore,  giving  offence  to  their  customers  by 
any  such  disappointment,  it  hath  been  usual  with  the  honest  and 
well-meaning  host  to  provide  a  bill  of  fare  which  all  persons  may 
peruse  at  their  first  entrance  into  the  house ;  and  having  thence 
acquainted  themselves  with  the  entertainment  which  they  may 
expect,  may  either  stay  and  regale  with  what  is  provided  for 
them,  or  may  depart  to  some  other  ordinary  better  accommodated 
to  their  taste. 

303 


304  HENRY   FIELDING 

As  we  do  not  disdain  to  borrow  wit  or  wisdom  from  any  man 
who  is  capable  of  lending  us  either,  we  have  condescended  to 
take  a  hint  from  these  honest  victuallers,  and  shall  prefix  not 
only  a  general  bill  of  fare  to  our  whole  entertainment,  but  shall 
likewise  give  the  reader  particular  bills  to  every  course  which 
is  to  be  served  up  in  this  and  the  ensuing  volumes. 

The  provision,  then,  which  we  have  here  made  is  no  other 
than  Human  Nature.  Nor  do  I  fear  that  my  sensible  reader, 
though  most  luxurious  in  his  taste,  will  start,  cavil,  or  be  offended, 
because  I  have  named  but  one  article.  The  tortoise  —  as  the 
alderman  of  Bristol,  well  learned  in  eating,  knows  by  much 
experience  —  besides  the  delicious  calipash  and  calipee,  contains 
many  different  kinds  of  food ;  nor  can  the  learned  reader  be 
ignorant,  that  in  human  nature,  though  here  collected  under 
one  general  name,  is  such  prodigious  variety,  that  a  cook  will 
have  sooner  gone  through  all  the  several  species  of  animal  and 
vegetable  food  in  the  world,  than  an  author  will  be  able  to  ex- 
haust so  extensive  a  subject. 

An  objection  may  perhaps  be  apprehended  from  the  more 
delicate,  that  this  dish  is  too  common  and  vulgar ;  for  what  else 
is  the  subject  of  all  the  romances,  novels,  plays,  and  poems,  with 
which  the  stalls  abound  ?  Many  exquisite  viands  might  be 
rejected  by  the  epicure,  if  it  was  a  sufficient  cause  for  his  con- 
temning of  them  as  common  and  vulgar,  that  something  was  to 
be  found  in  the  most  paltry  alleys  under  the  same  name.  In 
reality,  true  nature  is  as  difficult  to  be  met  with  in  authors,  as 
the  Bayonne  ham,  or  Bologna  sausage,  is  to  be  found  in  the 
shops. 

But  the  whole,  to  continue  the  same  metaphor,  consists  in 
the  cookery  of  the  author ;   for,  as  Mr  Pope  tells  us  — 

"True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  drest ; 
What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  exprest." 

The  same  animal  which  hath  the  honour  to  have  some  part 
of  his  flesh  eaten  at  the  table  of  a  duke,  may  perhaps  be  de- 
graded in  another  part,  and  some  of  his  limbs  gibbeted,  as  it 
were,  in  the  vilest  stall  in  town.  Where,  then,  lies  the  difference 
between  the  food  of  the  nobleman  and  the  porter,  if  both  are  at 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     305 

dinner  on  the  same  ox  or  calf,  but  in  the  seasoning,  the  dressing, 
the  garnishing,  and  the  setting  forth  ?  Hence  the  one  provokes 
and  incites  the  most  languid  appetite,  and  the  other  turns  and 
palls  that  which  is  the  sharpest  and  keenest. 

In  like  manner,  the  excellence  of  the  mental  entertainment 
consists  less  in  the  subject  than  in  the  author's  skill  in  well 
dressing  it  up.  How  pleased,  therefore,  will  the  reader  be  to 
find  that  we  have,  in  the  following  work,  adhered  closely  to  one 
of  the  highest  principles  of  the  best  cook  which  the  present  age, 
or  perhaps  that  of  Heliogabalus,  hath  produced.  This  great 
man,  as  is  well  known  to  all  lovers  of  polite  eating,  begins  at 
first  by  setting  plain  things  before  his  hungry  guests,  rising 
afterwards  by  degrees  as  their  stomachs  may  be  supposed  to 
decrease,  to  the  very  quintessence  of  sauce  and  spices.  In 
like  manner,  we  shall  represent  human  nature  at  first  to  the  keen 
appetite  of  our  reader,  in  that  more  plain  and  simple  manner 
in  which  it  is  found  in  the  country,  and  shall  hereafter  hash  and 
ragoo  it  with  all  the  high  French  and  Italian  seasoning  of  affecta- 
tion and  vice  which  courts  and  cities  afford.  By  these  means, 
we  doubt  not  but  our  reader  may  be  rendered  desirous  to  read 
on  for  ever,  as  the  great  person  just  above-mentioned  is  supposed 
to  have  made  some  persons  eat. 

Having  premised  thus  much,  we  will  now  detain  those  who 
like  our  bill  of  fare  no  longer  from  their  diet,  and  shall  proceed 
directly  to  serve  up  the  first  course  of  our  history  for  their  enter- 
tainment. 

CHAPTER  II 

A  Short  Description  of  Squire  Allworthy,  and  a  Fuller 
Account  of  Miss  Bridget  Allworthy,  his  Sister 

In  that  part  of  the  western  division  of  this  kingdom  which 
is  commonly  called  Somersetshire,  there  lately  lived,  and  per- 
haps lives  still,  a  gentleman  whose  name  was  Allworthy,  and 
who  might  well  be  called  the  favourite  of  both  nature  and  for- 
tune ;  for  both  of  these  seem  to  have  contended  which  should 
bless  and  enrich  him  most.  In  this  contention,  nature  may 
seem  to  some  to  have  come  off  victorious,  as  she  bestowed  on 
him  many  gifts,  while  fortune  had  only  one  gift  in  her  power; 


3o6  HENRY   FIELDING 

but  in  pouring  forth  this,  she  was  so  very  profuse,  that  others 
perhaps  may  think  this  single  endowment  to  have  been  more 
than  equivalent  to  all  the  various  blessings  which  he  enjoyed 
from  nature.  From  the  former  of  these,  he  derived  an  agreeable 
person,  a  sound  constitution,  a  solid  understanding,  and  a  benev- 
olent heart ;  by  the  latter,  he  was  decreed  to  the  inheritance 
of  one  of  the  largest  estates  in  the  county. 

This  gentleman  had  in  his  youth  married  a  very  worthy  and 
beautiful  woman,  of  whom  he  had  been  extremely  fond :  by  her 
he  had  three  children,  all  of  whom  died  in  their  infancy.  He 
had  likewise  had  the  misfortune  of  burying  this  beloved  wife 
herself,  about  five  years  before  the  time  in  which  this  history 
chuses  to  set  out.  This  loss,  however  great,  he  bore  like  a  man 
of  sense  and  constancy,  though  it  must  be  confest  he  would 
often  talk  a  little  whimsically  on  this  head ;  for  he  sometimes 
said  he  looked  on  himself  as  still  married,  and  considered  his  wife 
as  only  gone  a  little  before  him,  a  journey  which  he  should  most 
certainly,  sooner  or  later,  take  after  her;  and  that  he  had  not 
the  least  doubt  of  meeting  her  again  in  a  place  where  he  should 
never  part  with  her  more  —  sentiments  for  which  his  sense  was 
arraigned  by  one  part  of  his  neighbours,  his  religion  by  a  second, 
and  his  sincerity  by  a  third. 

He  now  lived,  for  the  most  part,  retired  in  the  country,  with 
one  sister,  for  whom  he  had  a  very  tender  affection.  This  lady 
was  now  somewhat  past  the  age  of  thirty,  an  aera  at  which,  in 
the  opinion  of  the  malicious,  the  title  of  old  maid  may  with  no 
impropriety  be  assumed.  She  was  of  that  species  of  women 
whom  you  commend  rather  for  good  qualities  than  beauty,  and 
who  are  generally  called,  by  their  own  sex,  very  good  sort  of 
women  —  as  good  a  sort  of  woman,  madam,  as  you  would  wish 
to  know.  Indeed,  she  was  so  far  from  regretting  want  of  beauty, 
that  she  never  mentioned  that  perfection,  if  it  can  be  called  one, 
without  contempt ;  and  would  often  thank  God  she  was  not  as 
handsome  as  Miss  Such-a-one,  whom  perhaps  beauty  had  led 
into  errors  which  she  might  have  otherwise  avoided.  Miss 
Bridget  Allworthy  (for  that  was  the  name  of  this  lady)  very 
rightly  conceived  the  charms  of  person  in  a  woman  to  be  no  better 
than  snares  for  herself,  as  well  as  for  others ;  and  yet  so  discreet 


THE   HISTORY  OF   TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     307 

was  she  in  her  conduct,  that  her  prudence  was  as  much  on  the 
guard  as  if  she  had  all  the  snares  to  apprehend  which  were  ever 
laid  for  her  whole  sex.  Indeed,  I  have  observed,  though  it  may 
seem  unaccountable  to  the  reader,  that  this  guard  of  prudence, 
like  the  trained  bands,  is  always  readiest  to  go  on  duty  where 
there  is  the  least  danger.  It  often  basely  and  cowardly  deserts 
those  paragons  for  whom  the  men  are  all  wishing,  sighing,  dying, 
and  spreading  every  net  in  their  power ;  and  constantly  attends 
at  the  heels  of  that  higher  order  of  women  for  whom  the  other 
sex  have  a  more  distant  and  awful  respect,  and  whom  (from 
despair,  I  suppose,  of  success)  they  never  venture  to  attack. 

Reader,  I  think  proper,  before  we  proceed  any  farther  together, 
to  acquaint  thee  that  I  intend  to  digress,  through  this  whole 
history,  as  often  as  I  see  occasion,  of  which  I  am  myself  a  better 
judge  than  any  pitiful  critic  whatever;  and  here  I  must  desire 
all  those  critics  to  mind  their  own  business,  and  not  to  inter- 
meddle with  affairs  or  works  which  no  ways  concern  them ;  for 
till  they  produce  the  authority  by  which  they  are  constituted 
judges,  I  shall  not  plead  to  their  jurisdiction. 

CHAPTER  III 

An  Odd  Accident  which  befel  Mr  Allworthy  at  his  return 

Home.     The  Decent  Behaviour  of  Mrs  Deborah  Wilkins, 

WITH  some  Proper  Ani:sla.dversions  on  Bastards 

I  have  told  my  reader,  in  the  preceding  chapter,  that  Mr 
Allworthy  inherited  a  large  fortune;  that  he  had  a  good  heart, 
and  no  family.  Hence,  doubtless,  it  will  be  concluded  by  many 
that  he  lived  like  an  honest  man,  owed  no  one  a  shilling,  took 
nothing  but  what  was  his  own,  kept  a  good  house,  entertained 
his  neighbours  with  a  hearty  welcome  at  his  table,  and  was 
charitable  to  the  poor,  i.e.,  to  those  who  had  rather  beg  than 
work,  by  giving  them  the  offals  from  it ;  that  he  died  immensely 
rich  and  built  an  hospital. 

And  true  it  is  that  he  did  many  of  these  things ;  but  had  he 
done  nothing  more  I  should  have  left  him  to  have  recorded  his 
own  merit  on  some  fair  freestone  over  the  door  of  that  hospital. 
Matters  of  a  much  more  extraordinary  kind  are  to  be  the  subject 


3o8  HENRY   FIELDING 

of  this  history,  or  I  should  grossly  mis-spend  my  time  in  writing 
so  voluminous  a  work;  and  you,  my  sagacious  friend,  might 
with  equal  profit  and  pleasure  travel  through  some  pages  which 
certain  droll  authors  have  been  facetiously  pleased  to  call  The 
History  of  England. 

Mr  Allworthy  had  been  absent  a  full  quarter  of  a  year  in 
London,  on  some  very  particular  business,  though  I  know  not 
what  it  was ;  but  judge  of  its  importance  by  its  having  detained 
him  so  long  from  home,  whence  he  had  not  been  absent  a  month 
at  a  time  during  the  space  of  many  years.  He  came  to  his  house 
very  late  in  the  evening,  and  after  a  short  supper  with  his  sister, 
retired  much  fatigued  to  his  chamber.  Here,  having  spent  some 
minutes  on  his  knees  —  a  custom  which  he  never  broke  through 
on  any  account  —  he  was  preparing  to  step  into  bed,  when, 
upon  opening  the  cloathes,  to  his  great  surprize  he  beheld  an 
infant,  wrapt  up  in  some  coarse  linen,  in  a  sweet  and  profound 
sleep,  between  his  sheets.  He  stood  some  time  lost  in  astonish- 
ment at  this  sight ;  but,  as  good  nature  had  always  the  ascendant 
in  his  mind,  he  soon  began  to  be  touched  with  sentiments  of 
compassion  for  the  Httle  wretch  before  him.  He  then  rang  his 
bell,  and  ordered  an  elderly  woman-servant  to  rise  immediately, 
and  come  to  him ;  and  in  the  meantime  was  so  eager  in  con- 
templating the  beauty  of  innocence,  appearing  in  those  lively 
colours  with  which  infancy  and  sleep  always  display  it,  that  his 
thoughts  were  too  much  engaged  to  reflect  that  he  was  in  his 
shirt  when  the  matron  came  in.  She  had  indeed  given  her 
master  sufficient  time  to  dress  himself ;  for  out  of  respect  to  him, 
and  regard  to  decency,  she  had  spent  many  minutes  in  adjusting 
her  hair  at  the  looking-glass,  notwithstanding  all  the  hurry  in 
which  she  had  been  summoned  by  the  servant,  and  though  her 
master,  for  aught  she  knew,  lay  expiring  in  an  apoplexy,  or  in 
some  other  fit. 

It  will  not  be  wondered  at  that  a  creature  who  had  so  strict  a 
regard  to  decency  in  her  own  person,  should  be  shocked  at  the 
least  deviation  from  it  in  another.  She  therefore  no  sooner 
opened  the  door,  and  saw  her  master  standing  by  the  bedside  in 
his  shirt,  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  than  she  started  back  in  a 
most  terrible  fright,  and  might  perhaps  have  swooned  away,  had 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     309 

he  not  now  recollected  his  being  undrest,  and  put  an  end  to  her 
terrors  by  desiring  her  to  stay  without  the  door  till  he  had 
thrown  some  cloathes  over  his  back,  and  was  become  incapable 
of  shocking  the  pure  eyes  of  Mrs  Deborah  Wilkins,  who,  though 
in  the  fifty-second  year  of  her  age,  vowed  she  had  never  beheld  a 
man  without  his  coat.  Sneerers  and  prophane  wits  may  perhaps 
laugh  at  her  first  fright ;  yet  my  graver  reader,  when  he  considers 
the  time  of  night,  the  summons  from  her  bed,  and  the  situation 
in  which  she  found  her  master,  will  highly  justify  and  applaud 
her  conduct,  unless  the  prudence  which  must  be  supposed  to 
attend  maidens  at  that  period  of  life  at  which  Mrs  Deborah  had 
arrived,  should  a  little  lessen  his  admiration. 

When  Mrs  Deborah  returned  into  the  room,  and  was  ac- 
quainted by  her  master  with  the  finding  the  little  infant,  her  con- 
sternation was  rather  greater  than  his  had  been ;  nor  could  she 
refrain  from  crying  out,  with  great  horror  of  accent  as  well  as 
look,  "My  good  sir!  what's  to  be  done?"  Mr  Allworthy 
answered,  she  must  take  care  of  the  child  that  evening,  and  in 
the  morning  he  would  give  orders  to  provide  it  a  nurse.  "Yes, 
sir,"  says  she;  "and  I  hope  your  worship  will  send  out  your 
warrant  to  take  up  the  hussy  its  mother,  for  she  must  be  one  of 
the  neighbourhood ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  see  her  committed 
to  Bridewell,  and  whipt  at  the  cart's  tail.  Indeed,  such  wicked 
sluts  cannot  be  too  severely  punished.  I'll  warrant  'tis  not  her 
first,  by  her  impudence  in  laying  it  to  your  worship."  "In  lay- 
ing it  to  me,  Deborah!"  answered  Allworthy:  "I  can't  think 
she  hath  any  such  design.  I  suppose  she  hath  only  taken  this 
method  to  provide  for  her  child ;  and  truly  I  am  glad  she  hath 
not  done  worse."  "I  don't  know  what  is  worse,"  cries  Deborah, 
"  than  for  such  wicked  strumpets  to  lay  their  sins  at  honest  men's 
doors ;  and  though  your  worship  knows  your  own  innocence, 
yet  the  world  is  censorious ;  and  it  hath  been  many  an  honest 
man's  hap  to  pass  for  the  father  of  children  he  never  begot ; 
and  if  your  worship  should  provide  for  the  child,  it  may  make 
the  people  the  apter  to  believe  ;  besides,  why  should  your  worship 
provide  for  what  the  parish  is  obhged  to  maintain?  For  my 
own  part,  if  it  was  an  honest  man's  child,  indeed  —  but  for  my 
own  part,  it  goes  against  me  to  touch  these  misbegotten  wretches, 


3IO 


HENRY   FIELDING 


whom  I  don't  look  upon  as  my  fellow-creatures.  Faugh  !  how 
it  stinks  !  It  doth  not  smell  like  a  Christian.  If  I  might  be 
so  bold  to  give  my  advice,  I  would  have  it  put  in  a  basket,  and 
sent  out  and  laid  at  the  churchwarden's  door.  It  is  a  good  night, 
only  a  Httle  rainy  and  windy ;  and  if  it  was  well  wrapt  up,  and 
put  in  a  warm  basket,  it  is  two  to  one  but  it  lives  till  it  is  found 
in  the  morning.  But  if  it  should  not,  we  have  discharged  our 
duty  in  taking  proper  care  of  it ;  and  it  is,  perhaps,  better  for 
such  creatures  to  die  in  a  state  of  innocence,  than  to  grow  up 
and  imitate  their  mothers ;  for  nothing  better  can  be  expected 
of  them." 

There  were  some  strokes  in  this  speech  which  perhaps  would 
have  offended  Mr  AUworthy,  had  he  strictly  attended  to  it ; 
but  he  had  now  got  one  of  his  fingers  into  the  infant's  hand,  which, 
by  its  gentle  pressure,  seeming  to  implore  his  assistance,  had 
certainly  outpleaded  the  eloquence  of  Mrs  Deborah,  had  it  been 
ten  times  greater  than  it  was.  He  now  gave  Mrs  Deborah 
positive  orders  to  take  the  child  to  her  own  bed,  and  to  call  up 
a  maid-servant  to  provide  it  pap,  and  other  things,  against  it 
waked.  He  Hkewise  ordered  that  proper  cloathes  should  be 
procured  for  it  early  in  the  morning,  and  that  it  should  be  brought 
to  himself  as  soon  as  he  was  stirring. 

Such  was  the  discernment  of  Mrs  Wilkins,  and  such  the 
respect  she  bore  her  master,  under  whom  she  enjoyed  a  most 
excellent  place,  that  her  scruples  gave  way  to  his  peremptory 
commands ;  and  she  took  the  child  under  her  arms,  without  any 
apparent  disgust  at  the  illegahty  of  its  birth  ;  and  declaring  it  ^^  as 
a  sweet  little  infant,  walked  off  with  it  to  her  own  chamber. 

AUworthy  here  betook  himself  to  those  pleasing  slumbers 
which  a  heart  that  hungers  after  goodness  is  apt  to  enjoy  when 
thoroughly  satisfied.  As  these  are  possibly  sweeter  than  what 
are  occasioned  by  any  other  hearty  meal,  I  should  take  more 
pains  to  display  them  to  the  reader,  if  I  knew  any  air  to  recom- 
mend him  to  for  the  procuring  such  an  appetite. 


THE   HISTORY   OF   TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     311 

CHAPTER   IV 

The  Reader's  Neck  brought  into  Danger  by  a  Description; 
HIS  Escape  ;   and  the  Great  Condescension  of  Miss  Bridget 

Allworthy 

The  Gothic  stile  of  building  could  produce  nothing  nobler  than 
Mr  Allworthy 's  house.  There  was  an  air  of  grandeur  in  it 
that  struck  you  with  awe,  and  rivalled  the  beauties  of  the  best 
Grecian  architecture  ;  and  it  was  as  commodious  within  as  vener- 
able without. 

It  stood  on  the  south-east  side  of  a  hill,  but  nearer  the  bottom 
than  the  top  of  it,  so  as  to  be  sheltered  from  the  north-east  by  a 
grove  of  old  oaks  which  rose  above  it  in  a  gradual  ascent  of 
near  half  a  mile,  and  yet  high  enough  to  enjoy  a  most  charming 
prospect  of  the  valley  beneath. 

In  the  midst  of  the  grove  was  a  fine  lawn,  sl()j)ing  down  towards 
the  house,  near  the  summit  of  which  rose  a  plentiful  spring,  gush- 
ing out  of  a  rock  covered  with  firs,  and  forming  a  constant  cascade 
of  about  thirty  feet,  not  carried  down  a  regular  flight  of  steps, 
but  tumbling  in  a  natural  fall  over  the  broken  and  mossy  stones 
till  it  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  rock,  then  running  off  in  a 
pebbly  channel,  that  with  many  lesser  falls  winded  along,  till  it 
fell  into  a  lake  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
below  the  house  on  the  south  side,  and  which  was  seen  from  every 
room  in  the  front.  Out  of  this  lake,  which  filled  the  center  of  a 
beautiful  plain,  embeUished  with  groups  of  beeches  and  elms, 
and  fed  with  sheep,  issued  a  river,  that  for  several  miles  was 
seen  to  meander  through  an  amazing  variety  of  meadows  and 
woods  till  it  emptied  itself  into  the  sea,  with  a  large  arm  of 
which,  and  an  island  beyond  it,  the  prospect  was  closed. 

On  the  right  of  this  valley  opened  another  of  less  extent, 
adorned  with  several  villages,  and  terminated  by  one  of  the  towers 
of  an  old  ruined  abby,  grown  over  with  ivy,  and  part  of  the  front, 
which  remained  still  entire. 

The  left-hand  scene  presented  the  view  of  a  very  fine  park, 
composed  of  very  unequal  ground,  and  agreeably  varied  with  all 
the  diversity  that  hills,  lawns,  wood,  and  water,  laid  out  with 
admirable  taste,  but  owing  less  to  art  than  to  nature,  could  give. 


312 


HENRY   FIELDING 


Beyond  this,  the  country  gradually  rose  into  a  ridge  of  wild 
mountains,  the  tops  of  which  were  above  the  clouds. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  May,  and  the  morning  was  remarkably 
serene,  when  Mr  Allworthy  walked  forth  on  the  terrace,  where 
the  dawn  opened  every  minute  that  lovely  prospect  we  have  be- 
fore described  to  his  eye ;  and  now  having  sent  forth  streams  of 
light,  which  ascended  the  blue  firmament  before  him,  as  har- 
bingers preceding  his  pomp,  in  the  full  blaze  of  his  majesty  rose 
the  sun,  than  which  one  object  alone  in  this  lower  creation  could 
be  more  glorious,  and  that  Mr  Allworthy  himself  presented  —  a 
human  being  replete  with  benevolence,  meditating  in  what 
manner  he  might  render  himself  most  acceptable  to  his  Creator, 
by  doing  most  good  to  his  creatures. 

Reader,  take  care.  I  have  unadvisedly  led  thee  to  the  top  of 
as  high  a  hill  as  Mr  Allworthy 's,  and  how  to  get  thee  down  with- 
out breaking  thy  neck,  I  do  not  well  know.  However,  let  us  e'en 
venture  to  shde  down  together ;  for  Miss  Bridget  rings  her  bell, 
and  Mr  Allworthy  is  summoned  to  breakfast,  where  I  must 
attend,  and,  if  you  please,  shall  be  glad  of  your  company. 

The  usual  compliments  having  past  between  Mr  Allworthy  and 
Miss  Bridget,  and  the  tea  being  poured  out,  he  summoned  Mrs 
Wilkins,  and  told  his  sister  he  had  a  present  for  her,  for  which 
she  thanked  him  —  imagining,  I  suppose,  it  had  been  a  gown,  or 
some  ornament  for  her  person.  Indeed,  he  very  often  made 
her  such  presents ;  and  she,  in  complacence  to  him,  spent  much 
time  in  adorning  herself.  I  say  in  complacence  to  him,  because 
she  always  exprest  the  greatest  contempt  for  dress,  and  for  those 
ladies  who  made  it  their  study. 

But  if  such  was  her  expectation,  how  was  she  disappointed 
when  Mrs  Wilkins,  according  to  the  order  she  had  received  from 
her  master,  produced  the  little  infant?  Great  surprizes,  as 
hath  been  observed,  are  apt  to  be  silent ;  and  so  was  Miss  Bridget, 
till  her  brother  began,  and  told  her  the  whole  story,  which,  as 
the  reader  knows  it  already,  we  shall  not  repeat. 

Miss  Bridget  had  always  exprest  so  great  a  regard  for  what  the 
ladies  are  pleased  to  call  virtue,  and  had  herself  maintained  such 
a  severity  of  character,  that  it  was  expected,  especially  by  Wilkins, 
that  she  would  have  vented  much  bitterness  on  this  occasion. 


THE  HISTORY   OF   TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     313 

and  would  have  voted  for  sending  the  child,  as  a  kind  of  noxious 
animal,  immediately  out  of  the  house ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
she  rather  took  the  good-natured  side  of  the  question,  intimated 
some  compassion  for  the  helpless  little  creature,  and  commended 
her  brother's  charity  in  what  he  had  done. 

Perhaps  the  reader  may  account  for  this  behaviour  from  her 
condescension  to  Mr  Allworthy,  when  we  have  informed  him 
that  the  good  man  had  ended  his  narrative  with  owning  a  resolu- 
tion to  take  care  of  the  child,  and  to  breed  him  up  as  his  own ; 
for,  to  acknowledge  the  truth,  she  was  always  ready  to  oblige 
her  brother,  and  very  seldom,  if  ever,  contradicted  his  sentiments. 
She  would,  indeed,  sometimes  make  a  few  observations,  as  that 
men  were  headstrong,  and  must  have  their  own  way,  and  would 
wish  she  had  been  blest  with  an  independent  fortune ;  but  these 
were  always  vented  in  a  low  voice,  and  at  the  most  amounted 
only  to  what  is  called  muttering. 

However,  what  she  withheld  from  the  infant,  she  bestowed 
with  the  utmost  profuseness  on  the  poor  unknown  mother, 
whom  she  called  an  impudent  slut,  a  wanton  hussy,  an  audacious 
harlot,  a  wicked  jade,  a  vile  strumpet,  with  every  other  appella- 
tion with  which  the  tongue  of  virtue  never  fails  to  lash  those  who 
bring  a  disgrace  on  the  sex. 

A  consultation  was  now  entered  into  how  to  proceed  in  order 
to  discover  the  mother.  A  scrutiny  was  first  made  into  the 
characters  of  the  female  servants  of  the  house,  who  were  all 
acquitted  by  Mrs  Wilkins,  and  with  apparent  merit ;  for  she 
had  collected  them  herself,  and  perhaps  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  such  another  set  of  scarecrows. 

The  next  step  was  to  examine  among  the  inhabitants  of  the 
parish ;  and  this  was  referred  to  Mrs  Wilkins,  who  was  to  enquire 
with  all  imaginable  diligence,  and  to  make  her  report  in  the 
afternoon. 

Matters  being  thus  settled,  Mr  Allworthy  withdrew  to  his 
study,  as  was  his  custom,  and  left  the  child  to  his  sister,  who, 
at  his  desire,  had  undertaken  the  care  of  it. 


314  HENRY   FIELDING 

CHAPTER  V 

Containing  a  Few  Common  Matters,  with  a  very  Uncommon 
Observation  upon  Them 

When  her  master  was  departed,  Mrs  Deborah  stood  silent, 
expectmg  her  cue  from  Miss  Bridget ;  for  as  to  what  had  past 
before  her  master,  the  prudent  housekeeper  by  no  means  relied 
upon  it,  as  she  had  often  known  the  sentiments  of  the  lady  in 
her  brother's  absence  to  differ  greatly  from  those  which  she  had 
expressed  in  his  presence.  Miss  Bridget  did  not,  however, 
suffer  her  to  continue  long  in  this  doubtful  situation  ;  for  having 
looked  some  time  earnestly  at  the  child,  as  it  lay  asleep  in  the  lap 
of  Mrs  Deborah,  the  good  lady  could  not  forbear  giving  it  a 
hearty  kiss,  at  the  same  time  declaring  herself  wonderfully 
pleased  with  its  beauty  and  innocence.  Mrs  Deborah  no 
sooner  observed  this  than  she  fell  to  squeezing  and  kissing,  with  as 
great  raptures  as  sometimes  inspire  the  sage  dame  of  forty  and 
five  towards  a  youthful  and  vigorous  bridegroom,  crying  out, 
in  a  shrill  voice,  "O,  the  dear  little  creature  !  —  The  dear,  sweet, 
pretty  creature  !  Well,  I  vow  it  is  as  fine  a  boy  as  ever  was 
seen  !" 

These  exclamations  continued  till  they  were  interrupted  by 
the  lady,  who  now  proceeded  to  execute  the  commission  given 
her  by  her  brother,  and  gave  orders  for  providing  all  necessaries 
for  the  child,  appointing  a  very  good  room  in  the  house  for  his 
nursery.  Her  orders  were  indeed  so  liberal,  that,  had  it  been  a 
child  of  her  own,  she  could  not  have  exceeded  them ;  but,  lest 
the  virtuous  reader  may  condemn  her  for  showing  too  great 
regard  to  a  base-born  infant,  to  which  all  charity  is  condemned 
by  law  as  irreligious,  we  think  proper  to  observe  that  she  con- 
cluded the  whole  with  saying,  "Since  it  was  her  brother's  whim 
to  adopt  the  little  brat,  she  supposed  little  master  must  be 
treated  with  great  tenderness.  For  her  part,  she  could  not  help 
thinking  it  was  an  encouragement  to  vice ;  but  that  she  knew 
too  much  of  the  obstinacy  of  mankind  to  oppose  any  of  their  ridic- 
ulous humours." 

With  reflections  of  this  nature  she  usually,  as  has  been  hinted, 
accompanied  every  act  of  compliance  with  her  brother's  inclina- 


THE   HISTORY   OF   TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     315 

tions ;  and  surely  nothing  could  more  contribute  to  heighten  the 
merit  of  this  compliance  than  a  declaration  that  she  knew, 
at  the  same  time,  the  folly  and  unreasonableness  of  those  inclina- 
tions to  which  she  submitted.  Tacit  obedience  implies  no  force 
upon  the  will,  and  consequently  may  be  easily,  and  without  any 
pains,  preserved  ;  but  when  a  wife,  a  child,  a  relation,  or  a  friend, 
performs  what  we  desire,  with  grumbling  and  reluctance,  with 
expressions  of  dislike  and  dissatisfaction,  the  manifest  difhculty 
which  they  undergo  must  greatly  enhance  the  obligation. 

As  this  is  one  of  those  deep  observations  which  very  few  readers 
can  be  supposed  capable  of  making  themselves,  I  have  thought 
proper  to  lend  them  my  assistance  ;  but  this  is  a  favour  rarely  to 
be  expected  in  the  course  of  my  work.  Indeed,  I  shall  seldom  or 
never  so  indulge  him,  unless  in  such  instances  as  this,  where 
nothing  but  the  inspiration  with  which  we  writers  are  gifted, 
can  possibly  enable  any  one  to  make  the  discovery. 


BOOK  III.     CIL\PTER  11 

The  Heroe  of  this  Great  History  appears  with  very  Bad  Omens. 
A  Little  Tale  of  so  low  a  Kind  that  some  may  think  it 
NOT  Worth  their  Notice.     A  Word  or  Two  concern- 
ing a  Squire,  and  more  relating  to  a  Gamekeeper 
AND  A  Schoolmaster 

As  we  determined,  when  we  first  sat  down  to  write  this  history, 
to  flatter  no  man,  but  to  guide  our  pen  throughout  by  the  direc- 
tions of  truth,  we  are  obliged  to  bring  our  heroe  on  the  stage  in 
a  much  more  disadvantageous  manner  than  we  could  wish  ;  and 
to  declare  honestly,  even  at  his  first  appearance,  that  it  was  the 
universal  opinion  of  all  Mr  AUworthy's  family  that  he  was 
certainly  born  to  be  hanged. 

Indeed,  I  am  sorry  to  say  there  was  too  much  reason  for  this 
conjecture ;  the  lad  having  from  his  earliest  years  discovered  a 
propensity  to  many  vices,  and  especially  to  one  which  hath  as 
direct  a  tendency  as  any  other  to  that  fate  which  we  have  just 
now  observed  to  have  been  prophetically  denounced  against 
him  :   he  had  been  already  convicted  of  three  robberies,  viz.,  of 


3i6  HENRY  FIELDING 

robbing  an  orchard,  of  stealing  a  duck  out  of  a  fanner's  yard, 
and  of  picking  Master  Blilirs  ^  pocket  of  a  ball. 

The  vices  of  this  young  man  were,  moreover,  heightened  by 
the  disadvantageous  light  in  which  they  appeared  when  opposed 
to  the  virtues  of  Master  BHfil,  his  companion ;  a  youth  of  so 
different  a  cast  from  Httle  Jones,  that  not  only  the  family  but  all 
the  neighbourhood  resounded  his  praises.  He  was,  indeed,  a 
lad  of  a  remarkable  disposition ;  sober,  discreet,  and  pious 
beyond  his  age  ;  qualities  which  gained  him  the  love  of  every  one 
who  knew  him :  while  Tom  Jones  was  universally  disliked ; 
and  many  expressed  their  wonder  that  Mr  Allworthy  would 
suffer  such  a  lad  to  be  educated  with  his  nephew,  lest  the  morals  of 
the  latter  should  be  corrupted  by  his  example. 

An  incident  which  happened  about  this  time  will  set  the  charac- 
ters of  these  two  lads  more  fairly  before  the  discerning  reader 
than  is  in  the  power  of  the  longest  dissertation. 

Tom  Jones,  who,  bad  as  he  is,  must  serve  for  the  heroe  of  this 
history,  had  only  one  friend  among  all  the  servants  of  the  family ; 
for  as  to  Mrs  Wilkins,  she  had  long  since  given  him  up,  and  was 
perfectly  reconciled  to  her  mistress.  This  friend  was  the  game- 
keeper, a  fellow  of  a  loose  kind  of  disposition,  and  who  was 
thought  not  to  entertain  much  stricter  notions  concerning  the 
difference  of  meum  and  tuum  than  the  young  gentleman  himself. 
And  hence  this  friendship  gave  occasion  to  many  sarcastical 
remarks  among  the  domestics,  most  of  which  were  either  proverbs 
before,  or  at  least  are  become  so  now ;  and,  indeed,  the  wit  of 
them  all  may  be  comprised  in  that  short  Latin  proverb,  ^^  Noscitur 
a  socio;'"  which,  I  think,  is  thus  expressed  in  English,  "You 
may  know  him  by  the  company  he  keeps." 

To  say  the  truth,  some  of  that  atrocious  wickedness  in  Jones, 
of  which  we  have  just  mentioned  three  examples,  might  perhaps 
be  derived  from  the  encouragement  he  had  received  from  his 
fellow,  who,  in  two  or  three  instances,  had  been  what  the  law 
calls  an  accessary  after  the  fact :  for  the  whole  duck,  and  great 
part  of  the  apples,  were  converted  to  the  use  of  the  gamekeeper 
and  his  family ;  though,  as  Jones  alone  was  discovered,  the  poor 

1  Master  Blifil  is  the  son  of  Mrs.  Blifil,  formerly  Miss  Bridget  Allworthy,  and  Captain 
Blifil,  now  deceased. 


THE   HISTORY   OF  TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     317 

lad  bore  not  only  the  whole  smart,  but  the  whole  blame ;  both 
which  fell  again  to  his  lot  on  the  following  occasion. 

Contiguous  to  Mr  Allworthy's  estate  was  the  manor  of  one 
of  those  gentlemen  who  are  called  preservers  of  the  game.  This 
species  of  men,  from  the  great  severity  with  which  they  revenge 
the  death  of  a  hare  or  partridge,  might  be  thought  to  cultivate 
the  same  superstition  with  the  Bannians  in  India ;  many  of 
whom,  we  are  told,  dedicate  their  whole  lives  to  the  preservation 
and  protection  of  certain  animals ;  was  it  not  that  our  English 
Bannians,  while  they  preserve  them  from  other  enemies,  will 
most  unmercifully  slaughter  whole  horseloads  themselves ; 
so  that  they  stand  clearly  acquitted  of  any  such  heathenish 
superstition. 

I  have,  indeed,  a  much  better  opinion  of  this  kind  of  men 
than  is  entertained  by  some,  as  I  take  them  to  answer  the  order 
of  Nature,  and  the  good  purposes  for  which  they  were  ordained, 
in  a  more  ample  manner  than  many  others.  Now,  as  Horace 
tells  us  that  there  are  a  set  of  human  beings 

Fruges  consumerc  nati, 

"Born  to  consume  the  fruits  of  the  earth  ; "  so  I  make  no  manner 
of  doubt  but  that  there  are  others 

Feras  consiimere  nati, 

"Born  to  consume  the  beasts  of  the  field  ; "  or,  as  it  is  commonly 
called,  the  game ;  and  none,  I  believe,  will  deny  but  that  those 
squires  fulfil  this  end  of  their  creation. 

Little  Jones  went  one  day  a  shooting  with  the  gamekeeper ; 
when  happening  to  spring  a  covey  of  partridges  near  the  border 
of  that  manor  over  which  Fortune,  to  fulfil  the  wise  purposes  of 
Nature,  had  planted  one  of  the  game  consumers,  the  birds  flew 
into  it,  and  were  marked  (as  it  is  called)  by  the  two  sportsmen, 
in  some  furze  bushes,  about  two  or  three  hundred  paces  beyond 
Mr  Allworthy's  dominions. 

Mr  Allworthy  had  given  the  fellow  strict  orders,  on  pain  of 
forfeiting  his  place,  never  to  trespass  on  any  of  his  neighbours ; 
no  more  on  those  who  were  less  rigid  in  this  matter  than  on  the 
lord  of  this  manor.     With  regard  to  others,  indeed,  these  orders 


3i8  HENRY   FIELDING 

had  not  been  always  very  scrupulously  kept ;  but  as  the  disposition 
of  the  gentleman  with  whom  the  partridges  had  taken  sanctuary 
was  well  known,  the  gamekeeper  had  never  yet  attempted  to 
invade  his  territories.  Nor  had  he  done  it  now,  had  not  the 
younger  sportsman,  who  was  excessively  eager  to  pursue  the  flying 
game,  overpersuaded  him  ;  but  Jones  being  very  importunate, 
the  other,  who  was  himself  keen  enough  after  the  sport,  yielded 
to  his  persuasions,  entered  the  manor,  and  shot  one  of  the 
partridges. 

The  gentleman  himself  was  at  that  time  on  horse-back,  at  a 
little  distance  from  them  ;  and  hearing  the  gun  go  off,  he  im- 
mediately made  towards  the  place,  and  discovered  poor  Tom ; 
for  the  gamekeeper  had  leapt  into  the  thickest  part  of  the  furze- 
brake,  where  he  had  happily  concealed  himself. 

The  gentleman  having  searched  the  lad,  and  found  the  par- 
tridge upon  him,  denounced  great  vengeance,  swearing  he  would 
acquaint  Mr  AUworthy.  He  was  as  good  as  his  word  :  for  he  rode 
immediately  to  his  house,  and  complained  of  the  trespass  on  his 
manor  in  as  high  terms  and  as  bitter  language  as  if  his  house  had 
been  broken  open,  and  the  most  valuable  furniture  stole  out  of 
it.  He  added,  that  some  other  person  was  in  his  company, 
though  he  could  not  discover  him  ;  for  that  two  guns  had  been 
discharged  almost  in  the  same  instant.  And,  says  he,  ''We 
have  found  only  this  partridge,  but  the  Lord  knows  what  mischief 
they  have  done." 

At  his  return  home,  Tom  was  presently  convened  before  Mr 
AUworthy.  He  owned  the  fact,  and  alledged  no  other  excuse 
but  what  was  really  true,  viz.,  that  the  covey  was  orginally 
sprung  in  Mr  Allworthy's  own  manor. 

Tom  was  then  interrogated  who  was  with  him,  which  Mr 
AUworthy  declared  he  was  resolved  to  know,  acquainting  the 
culprit  with  the  circumstance  of  the  two  guns,  which  had  been 
deposed  by  the  squire  and  both  his  servants ;  but  Tom  stoutly 
persisted  in  asserting  that  he  was  alone ;  yet,  to  say  the  truth, 
he  hesitated  a  little  at  first,  which  would  have  confirmed  Mr 
Allworthy's  belief,  had  what  the  squire  and  his  servants  said 
wanted  any  further  confirmation. 

The   gamekeeper,  being  a   suspected  person,  was   now  sent 


THE   HISTORY   OF   TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     319 

for,  and  the  question  put  to  him  ;  but  he,  relying  on  the  promise 
which  Tom  had  made  him,  to  take  all  ui)on  himself,  very  reso- 
lutely denied  being  in  company  with  the  young  gentleman,  or 
indeed  having  seen  him  the  whole  afternoon. 

Mr  Allworthy  then  turned  towards  Tom,  with  more  than  usual 
anger  in  his  countenance,  and  advised  him  to  confess  who  was 
with  him ;  repeating,  that  he  was  resolved  to  know.  The  lad, 
however,  still  maintained  his  resolution,  and  was  dismissed  with 
much  wrath  by  Mr  Allworthy,  who  told  him  he  should  have  to 
the  next  morning  to  consider  of  it,  when  he  should  be  questioned 
by  another  person,  and  in  another  manner^ 

Poor  Jones  spent  a  very  melancholy  night ;  and  the  more  so,  as 
he  was  without  his  usual  companion ;  for  Master  Blifil  was 
gone  abroad  on  a  visit  with  his  mother.  Fear  of  the  i)unishment 
he  was  to  suffer  was  on  this  occasion  his  least  evil ;  his  chief 
anxiety  being,  lest  his  constancy  should  fail  him,  and  he  should 
be  brought  to  betray  the  gamekeeper,  whose  ruin  he  knew  must 
now  be  the  consequence. 

Nor  did  the  gamekeeper  pass  his  time  much  better.  He  had 
the  same  apprehensions  with  the  youth  ;  for  whose  honour  he 
had  likewise  a  much  tenderer  regard  than  for  his  skin. 

In  the  morning,  when  Tom  attended  the  reverend  Mr 
Thwackum,  the  person  to  whom  Mr  Allworthy  had  committed 
the  instruction  of  the  two  boys,  he  had  the  same  questions  put 
to  him  by  that  gentleman  which  he  had  been  asked  the  evening 
before,  to  which  he  returned  the  same  answers.  The  consequence 
of  this  was,  so  severe  a  w^hipping,  that  it  possibly  fell  little  short 
of  the  torture  with  which  confessions  are  in  some  countries  ex- 
torted from  criminals. 

Tom  bore  his  punishment  with  great  resolution  ;  and  though 
his  master  asked  him,  between  every  stroke,  whether  he  would  not 
confess,  he  was  contented  to  be  flead  rather  than  betray  his  friend, 
or  break  the  promise  he  had  made. 

The  gamekeeper  was  now  relieved  from  his  anxiety,  and  Mr 
Allworthy  himself  began  to  be  concerned  at  Tom's  sufferings : 
for  besides  that  Mr  Thwackum,  being  highly  enraged  that  he  was 
not  able  to  make  the  boy  say  what  he  himself  pleased,  had 
carried  his  severity  much  beyond  the  good  man's  intention,  this 


320  ■  HENRY  FIELDING 

latter  began  now  to  suspect  that  the  squire  had  been  mistaken ; 
which  his  extreme  eagerness  and  anger  seemed  to  make  probable  ; 
and  as  for  what  the  servants  had  said  in  confirmation  of  their 
master's  account,  he  laid  no  great  stress  upon  that.  Now,  as 
cruelty  and  injustice  were  two  ideas  of  which  Mr  Allworthy 
could  by  no  means  support  the  consciousness  a  single  moment, 
he  sent  for  Tom,  and  after  many  kind  and  friendly  exhortations, 
said,  "I  am  convinced,  my  dear  child,  that  my  suspicions  have 
wronged  you ;  I  am  sorry  that  you  have  been  so  severely 
punished  on  this  account."  And  at  last  gave  him  a  little 
horse  to  make  him  amends ;  again  repeating  his  sorrow  for 
what  had  past. 

Tom's  guilt  now  flew  in  his  face  more  than  any  severity  could 
make  it.  He  could  more  easily  bear  the  lashes  of  Thwackum,  than 
the  generosity  of  Allworthy.  The  tears  burst  from  his  eyes, 
and  he  fell  upon  his  knees  crying,  "Oh,  sir,  you  are  too  good  to 
me.  Indeed  you  are.  Indeed  I  don't  deserve  it."  And  at 
that  very  instant,  from  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  had  almost 
betrayed  the  secret ;  but  the  good  genius  of  the  gamekeeper 
suggested  to  him  what  might  be  the  consequence  to  the  poor 
fellow,  and  this  consideration  sealed  his  lips. 

Thwackum  did  all  he  could  to  persuade  Allworthy  from 
showing  any  compassion  or  kindness  to  the  boy  saying,  "He 
had  persisted  in  an  untruth;"  and  gave  some  hints,  that  a 
second  whipping  might  probably  bring  the  matter  to  light. 

But  Mr  Allworthy  absolutely  refused  to  consent  to  the  ex- 
periment. He  said,  the  boy  had  suffered  enough  already  for 
conceahng  the  truth,  even  if  he  was  guilty,  seeing  that  he 
could  have  no  motive  but  a  mistaken  point  of  honour  for 
so  doing. 

"Honour!"  cryed  Thwackum,  with  some  warmth,  "mere 
stubbornness  and  obstinacy  !  Can  honour  teach  any  one  to  tell 
a  He,  or  can  any  honour  exist  independent  of  religion  ?" 

This  discourse  happened  at  table  when  dinner  was  just  ended. 


THE   HISTORY  OF   TOM   JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     321 

CHAPTER  IV 

Containing  a  Necessary  Apology  for  the  Author  ;  and  a  Child- 
ish Incident,  which  perhaps  requires  an  Apology  Likewise 

Before  I  proceed  farther,  I  shall  beg  leave  to  obviate  some  mis- 
constructions into  which  the  zeal  of  some  few  readers  may  lead 
them ;  for  I  would  not  willingly  give  offence  to  any,  especially 
to  men  who  are  warm  in  the  cause  of  virtue  or  religion. 

I  hope,  therefore,  no  man  will,  by  the  grossest  misunderstand- 
ing or  perversion  of  my  meaning,  misrepresent  me,  as  endeavour- 
ing to  cast  any  ridicule  on  the  greatest  perfections  of  human 
nature  ;  and  which  do,  indeed,  alone  purify  and  ennoble  the  heart 
of  man,  and  raise  him  above  the  brute  creation.  This,  reader,  I 
will  venture  to  say  (and  by  how  much  the  better  man  you  are 
yourself,  by  so  much  the  more  will  you  be  inclined  to  believe  me), 
that  I  would  rather  have  buried  the  sentiments  of  these  two 
persons  in  eternal  oblivion,  than  have  done  any  injury  to  either 
of  these  glorious  causes. 

On  the  contrary,  it  is  with  a  view  to  their  service,  that  I  have 
taken  upon  me  to  record  the  Hves  and  actions  of  two  of  their 
false  and  pretended  champions.  A  treacherous  friend  is  the 
most  dangerous  enemy  ;  and  I  will  say  boldly,  that  both  religion 
and  virtue  have  received  more  real  discredit  from  hypocrites 
than  the  wittiest  profligates  or  infidels  could  ever  cast  upon 
them  :  nay,  farther,  as  these  two,  in  their  purity,  are  rightly 
called  the  bands  of  civil  society,  and  are  indeed  the  greatest  of 
blessings  ;  so  when  poisoned  and  corrupted  with  fraud,  pretence, 
and  affectation,  they  have  become  the  worst  of  civil  curses,  and 
have  enabled  men  to  perpetrate  the  most  cruel  mischiefs  to 
their  own  species. 

Indeed,  I  doubt  not  but  this  ridicule  will  in  general  be  allowed  : 
my  chief  apprehension  is,  as  many  true  and  just  sentiments 
often  came  from  the  mouths  of  these  persons,  lest  the  whole 
should  be  taken  together,  and  I  should  be  conceived  to  ridicule 
all  alike.  Now  the  reader  will  be  pleased  to  consider,  that,  as 
neither  of  these  men  were  fools,  they  could  not  be  supposed  to 
have  holden  none  but  wrong  principles,  and  to  have  uttered 
nothing  but  absurdities ;   what  injustice,  therefore,  must  I  have 


322  HENRY   FIELDING 

done  to  their  characters,  had  I  selected  only  what  was  bad  ! 
And  how  horribly  wretched  and  maimed  must  their  arguments 
have  appeared  ! 

Upon  the  whole,  it  is  not  religion  or  virtue,  but  the  want  of 
them,  which  is  here  exposed.  Had  not  Thwackum  too  much 
neglected  virtue,  and  Square,^  religion,  in  the  composition  of  their 
several  systems,  and  had  not  both  utterly  discarded  all  natural 
goodness  of  heart,  they  had  never  been  represented  as  the  objects 
of  derision  in  this  history  ;  in  which  we  will  now  proceed. 

This  matter  then,  which  put  an  end  to  the  debate  mentioned 
in  the  last  chapter,  was  no  other  than  a  quarrel  between  Master 
Bhfil  and  Tom  Jones,  the  consequence  of  which  had  been  a 
bloody  nose  to  the  former ;  for  though  Master  Bhfil,  notwith- 
standing he  was  the  younger,  was  in  size  above  the  other's  match, 
yet  Tom  was  much  his  superior  at  the  noble  art  of  boxing. 

Tom,  however,  cautiously  avoided  all  engagements  with  that 
youth ;  for  besides  that  Tommy  Jones  was  an  inoffensive  lad 
amidst  all  his  roguery,  and  really  loved  Blifil,  Mr  Thwackum 
being  always  the  second  of  the  latter,  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  deter  him. 

But  well  says  a  certain  author,  No  man  is  wise  at  all  hours ; 
it  is  therefore  no  wonder  that'  a  boy  is  not  so.  A  difference 
arising  at  play  between  the  two  lads.  Master  BHfil  called  Tom  a 
beggarly  bastard.  Upon  which  the  latter,  who  was  somewhat 
passionate  in  his  disposition,  immediately  caused  that  phenome- 
non in  the  face  of  the  former,  which  we  have  above  remembered. 

Master  Blifil  now,  with  his  blood  running  from  his  nose,  and 
the  tears  galloping  after  from  his  eyes,  appeared  before  his  uncle 
and  the  tremendous  Thwackum.  In  which  court  an  indictment 
of  assault,  battery,  and  wounding,  was  instantly  preferred 
against  Tom ;  who  in  his  excuse  only  pleaded  the  provocation, 
which  was  indeed  all  the  matter  that  Master  Blifil  had  omitted. 

It  is  indeed  possible  that  this  circumstance  might  have  escaped 
his  memory;  for,  in  his  reply,  he  positively  insisted,  that  he 
had  made  use  of  no  such  appellation;  adding,  ''Heaven  forbid 
such  naughty  words  should  ever  come  out  of  his  mouth  !" 

1  Mr.  Square  is  a  gentleman  philosopher  also  resident  at  Mr.  Allworthy's  and  diametrically 
opposed  in  point  of  view  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Thwackum. 


THE   HISTORY   OF   TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     323 

Tom,  though  against  all  form  of  law,  rejoined  in  affirmance 
of  the  words.  Upon  which  Master  BUfil  said,  "It  is  no  wonder. 
Those  who  will  tell  one  fib,  will  hardly  stick  at  another.  If  I 
had  told  my  master  such  a  wicked  fib  as  you  have  done,  I  should 
be  ashamed  to  show  my  face." 

"What  fib,  child?"  cries  Thwackum  pretty  eagerly. 

"Why,  he  told  you  that  nobody  was  with  him  a  shooting  when 
he  killed  the  partridge;  but  he  knows"  (here  he  burst  into  a 
flood  of  tears),  "yes,  he  knows,  for  he  confessed  it  to  me,  that 
Black  George  the  gamekeeper  was  there.  Nay,  he  said  —  yes 
you  did  —  deny  it  if  you  can,  that  you  would  not  have  confest 
the  truth,  though  master  had  cut  you  to  pieces." 

At  this  the  fire  Hashed  from  Thwackum's  eyes,  and  he  cried  out 
in  triumph  —  "Oh  !  ho  !  this  is  your  mistaken  notion  of  honour  ! 
This  is  the  boy  who  was  not  to  be  whipped  again  !"  But  Mr 
Allworthy,  with  a  more  gentle  aspect,  turned  towards  the  lad, 
and  said,  "Is  this  true,  child?  How  came  you  to  persist  so 
obstinately  in  a  falsehood  ?" 

Tom  said,  "He  scorned  a  lie  as  much  as  any  one:  but  he 
thought  his  honour  engaged  him  to  act  as  he  did  ;  for  he  had 
promised  the  poor  fellow  to  conceal  him:  which,"  he  said,  "he 
thought  himself  farther  obliged  to,  as  the  gamekeeper  had  begged 
him  not  to  go  into  the  gentleman's  manor,  and  had  at  last  gone 
himself,  in  compliance  with  his  persuasions."  He  said,  "This 
was  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter,  and  he  would  take  his  oath 
of  it  ;"  and  concluded  with  very  passionately  begging  Mr  All- 
worthy  "to  have  compassion  on  the  poor  fellow's  family,  es- 
pecially as  he  himself  only  had  been  guilty,  and  the  other  had 
been  very  difficultly  prevailed  on  to  do  what  he  did.  Indeed, 
sir,"  said  he,  "it  could  hardly  be  called  a  lie  that  I  told ;  for  the 
poor  fellow  was  entirely  innocent  of  the  whole  matter.  I  should 
have  gone  alone  after  the  birds ;  nay,  I  did  go  at  first,  and  he 
only  followed  me  to  prevent  more  mischief.  Do,  pray,  sir,  let 
me  be  punished  ;  take  my  little  horse  away  again ;  but  pray, 
sir,  forgive  poor  George." 

Mr  Allworthy  hesitated  a  few  moments,  and  then  dismissed 
the  boys,  advising  them  to  live  more  friendly  and  peaceably 
together. 


324 


HENRY   FIELDING 


CHAPTER  V 


The  Opinions  of  the  Divine  and  the  Philosopher  concerning 
THE  Two  Boys  ;    with  some  Reasons  for  their  Opinions, 

AND  OTHER  MATTERS 

It  is  probable,  that  by  disclosing  this  secret,  which  had  been 
communicated  in  the  utmost  confidence  to  him,  young  Blifil 
preserved  his  companion  from  a  good  lashing;  for  the  offence 
of  the  bloody  nose  would  have  been  of  itself  sufficient  cause  for 
Thwackum  to  have  proceeded  to  correction ;  but  now  this  was 
totally  absorbed  in  the  consideration  of  the  other  matter ;  and 
with  regard  to  this,  Mr  Allworthy  declared  privately,  bethought 
the  boy  deserved  reward  rather  than  punishment,  so  that 
Thwackum's  hand  was  withheld  by  a  general  pardon. 

Thwackum,  whose  meditations  were  full  of  birch,  exclaimed 
against  this  weak,  and,  as  he  said  he  would  venture  to  call  it, 
wicked  lenity.  To  remit  the  punishment  of  such  crimes  was, 
he  said,  to  encourage  them.  He  enlarged  much  on  the  correction 
of  children,  and  quoted  many  texts  from  Solomon,  and  others ; 
which  being  to  be  found  in  so  many  other  books,  shall  not 
be  found  here.  He  then  applied  himself  to  the  vice  of  lying, 
on  which  head  he  was  altogether  as  learned  as  he  had  been  on 
the  other. 

Square  said,  he  had  been  endeavouring  to  reconcile  the  be- 
haviour of  Tom  with  his  idea  of  perfect  virtue,  but  could  not. 
He  owned  there  was  something  which  at  first  sight  appeared  Hke 
fortitude  in  the  action  ;  but  as  fortitude  was  a  virtue,  and  false- 
hood a  vice,  they  could  by  no  means  agree  or  unite  together.  He 
added,  that  as  this  was  in  some  measure  to  confound  virtue  and 
vice,  it  might  be  worth  Mr  Thwackum's  consideration,  whether  a 
larger  castigation  might  not  be  laid  on  upon  the  account. 

As  both  these  learned  men  concurred  in  censuring  Jones,  so 
were  they  no  less  unanimous  in  applauding  Master  BHfil.  To 
bring  truth  to  light,  was  by  the  parson  asserted  to  be  the  duty 
of  every  religious  man  ;  and  by  the  philosopher  this  was  declared 
to  be  highly  conformable  with  the  rule  of  right,  and  the  eternal 
and  unalterable  fitness  of  things. 

All  this,  however,  weighed  very  little  with  Mr  Allworthy.     He 


THE   HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     32^ 

could  not  be  prevailed  on  to  sign  the  warrant  for  the  execution  of 
Jones.  There  was  something  within  his  own  breast  with  .which 
the  in\'incible  fidelity  which  that  youth  had  preserved,  corre^ 
sponded  much  better  than  it  had  done  with  the  religion  of 
Thwackum,  or  with  the  virtue  of  Square.  He  therefore  Strictly 
ordered  the  former  of  these  gentlemen  to  abstain  from  laying 
violent  hands  on  Tom  for  what  had  past.  The  pedagogue  was 
obliged  to  obey  those  orders ;  but  not  without  great  reluctance, 
and  frequent  mutterings  that  the  boy  would  be  certainly  spoiled. 

Towards  the  gamekeeper  the  good  man  behaved  with  more 
severity.  He  presently  summoned  that  poor  fellow  before  him, 
and  after  many  bitter  remonstrances,  paid  him  his  wages,  and 
dismist  him  from  his  service  ;  for  Mr  All  worthy  rightly  observed, 
that  there  was  a  great  difference  between  being  guilty  of  a  false- 
hood to  excuse  yourself,  and  to  excuse  another.  He  likewise 
urged,  as  the  principal  motive  to  his  inflexible  severity  against 
this  man,  that  he  had  basely  suffered  Tom  Jones  to  undergo 
so  heavy  a  punishment  for  his  sake,  whereas  he  ought  to  have 
prevented  it  by  making  the  disco\-ery  himself. 

When  the  story  became  jniblic,  many  people  differed  from 
Square  and  Thwackum,  in  judging  the  conduct  of  the  two  lads 
on  the  occasion.  Master  Blifil  was  generally  called  a  sneaking 
rascal,  a  poor-spirited  wretch,  with  other  epithets  of  the  like  kind  ; 
whilst  Tom  was  honoured  with  the  appellations  of  a  brave  lad, 
a  jolly  dog,  and  an  honest  fellow.  Indeed,  his  behaviour  to 
Black  George  much  ingratiated  him  with  all  the  servants ;  for 
though  that  fellow  was  before  universally  disliked,  yet  he  was 
no  sooner  turned  away  than  he  was  as  universally  pitied ;  and 
the  friendship  and  gallantry  of  Tom  Jones  was  celebrated  by 
them  all  with  the  highest  applause  ;  and  they  condemned  Master 
Blifil  as  openly  as  they  durst,  without  incurring  the  danger  of 
offending  his  mother.  For  all  this,  however,  poor  Tom  smarted 
in  the  flesh  ;  for  though  Thwackum  had  been  inhibited  to  exercise 
his  arm  on  the  foregoing  account,  yet,  as  the  proverb  says.  It  is 
easy  to  find  a  stick,  &c.  So  was  it  easy  to  find  a  rod  ;  and,  in- 
deed, the  not  being  able  to  find  one  was  the  only  thing  which  could 
have  kept  Thwackum  any  long  time  from  chastising  poor  Jones. 

Had  the  bare  delight  in  the  sport  been  the  only  inducement  to 


326  HENRY  FIELDING 

the  pedagogue,  it  is  probable  Master  Blifil  would  likewise  have 
had  his  share  ;  but  though  Mr  Allworthy  had  given  him  frequent 
orders  to  make  no  difference  between  the  lads,  yet  was  Thwackum 
altogether  as  kind  and  gentle  to  this  youth,  as  he  was  harsh, 
nay  even  barbarous,  to  the  other.  To  say  the  truth,  Blilil  had 
greatly  gained  his  master's  affections ;  partly  by  the  profound 
respect  he  always  showed  his  person,  but  much  more  by  the  decent 
reverence  with  which  he  received  his  doctrine  ;  for  he  had  got  by 
heart,  and  frequently  repeated,  his  phrases,  and  maintained  all  his 
master's  religious  principles  with  a  zeal  which  was  surprizing  in 
one  so  young,  and  which  greatly  endeared  him  to  the  worthy 
preceptor. 

Tom  Jones,  on  the  other  hand,  was  not  only  deficient  in  out- 
ward tokens  of  respect,  often  forgetting  to  pull  off  his  hat,  or  to 
bow  at  his  master's  approach ;  but  was  altogether  as  unmindful 
both  of  his  master's  precepts  and  example.  He  was  indeed  a 
thoughtless,  giddy  youth,  with  little  sobriety  in  his  manners,  and 
less  in  his  countenance ;  and  would  often  very  impudently  and 
indecently  laugh  at  his  companion  for  his  serious  behaviour. 

Mr  Square  had  the  same  reason  for  his  preference  of  the  former 
lad ;  for  Tom  Jones  showed  no  more  regard  to  the  learned  dis- 
courses which  this  gentleman  would  sometimes  throw  away 
upon  him,  than  to  those  of  Thwackum.  He  once  ventured  to 
make  a  jest  of  the  rule  of  right ;  and  at  another  time  said,  he 
believed  there  was  no  rule  in  the  world  capable  of  making  such 
a  man  as  his  father  (for  so  Mr  Allworthy  suffered  himself  to 
be  called). 

Master  Blifil,  on  the  contrary,  had  address  enough  at  sixteen 
to  recommend  himself  at  one  and  the  same  time  to  both  these 
opposites.  With  one  he  was  all  religion,  with  the  other  he  was  all 
virtue.  And  when  both  were  present,  he  was  profoundly  silent, 
which  both  interpreted  in  his  favour  and  in  their  own. 

Nor  was  Bhfil  contented  with  flattering  both  these  gentlemen  to 
their  faces ;  he  took  frequent  occasions  of  praising  them  behind 
their  backs  to  Allworthy ;  before  whom,  when  they  two  were 
alone,  and  his  uncle  commended  any  religious  or  virtuous  senti- 
ment (for  many  such  came  constantly  from  him)  he  seldom 
failed  to  ascribe  it  to  the  good  instructions  he  had  received  from 


THE  HISTORY   OF  TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     327 

either  Thwackum  or  Square ;  for  he  knew  his  uncle  repeated  all 
such  compUments  to  the  persons  for  whose  use  they  were  meant ; 
and  he  found  by  experience  the  great  impressions  which  they 
made  on  the  philosopher,  as  well  as  on  the  divine :  for,  to  say 
the  truth,  there  is  no  kind  of  flattery  so  irresistible  as  this,  at 
second  hand. 

The  young  gentleman,  moreover,  soon  perceived  how  extremely 
grateful  all  those  panegyrics  on  his  instructors  were  to  Mr 
Allworthy  himself,  as  they  so  loudly  resounded  the  praise  of 
that  singular  plan  of  education  which  he  had  laid  down  ;  for 
this  worthy  man  having  observed  the  imperfect  institution  of  our 
pubhc  schools,  and  the  many  vices  which  boys  were  there  liable 
to  learn,  had  resolved  to  educate  his  nephew,  as  well  as  the  other 
lad,  whom  he  had  in  a  manner  adopted,  in  his  own  house ;  where 
he  thought  their  morals  would  escape  all  that  danger  of  being 
corrupted  to  which  they  would  be  unavoidably  exposed  in  any 
public  school  or  university. 

Having,  therefore,  determined  to  commit  these  boys  to  the 
tuition  of  a  private  tutor,  Mr  Thwackum  was  recommended 
to  him  for  that  office,  by  a  very  particular  friend,  of  whose  under- 
standing Mr  Allworthy  had  a  great  opinion,  and  in  whose  integ- 
rity he  placed  much  confidence.  This  Thwackum  was  fellow 
of  a  college,  where  he  almost  entirely  resided ;  and  had  a 
great  reputation  for  learning,  religion,  and  sobriety  of  manners. 
And  these  were  doubtless  the  qualifications  by  which  Mr  All- 
worthy's  friend  had  been  induced  to  recommend  him ;  though 
indeed  this  friend  had  some  obligations  to  Thwackum's  family, 
who  were  the  most  considerable  persons  in  a  borough  which  that 
gentleman  represented  in  parliament. 

Thwackum,  at  his  first  arrival,  was  extremely  agreeable  to 
Allworthy ;  and  indeed  he  perfectly  answered  the  character 
which  had  been  given  of  him.  Upon  longer  acquaintance,  how- 
ever, and  more  intimate  conversation,  this  worthy  man  saw  in- 
firmities in  the  tutor,  which  he  could  have  wished  him  to  have 
been  without ;  though  as  those  seemed  greatly  overbalanced  by 
his  good  qualities,  they  did  not  incline  Mr  Allworthy  to  part  with 
him  :  nor  would  they  indeed  have  justified  such  a  proceeding  ;  for 
the  reader  is  greatly  mistaken,  if  he  conceives  that  Thwackum  ap- 


328  HENRY   FIELDING 

peared  to  Mr  Allworthy  in  the  same  light  as  he  doth  to  him  in 
this  history ;  and  he  is  as  much  deceived,  if  he  imagines  that  the 
most  intimate  acquaintance  which  he  himself  could  have  had  with 
that  divine,  would  have  informed  him  of  those  things  which  we, 
from  our  inspiration,  are  enabled  to  open  and  discover.  Of 
readers  who,  from  such  conceits  as  these,  condemn  the  wisdom 
or  penetration  of  Mr  Allworthy,  I  shall  not  scruple  to  say,  that 
they  make  a  very  bad  and  ungrateful  use  of  that  knowledge  which 
we  have  communicated  to  them. 

These  apparent  errors  in  the  doctrine  of  Thwackum  served 
greatly  to  palliate  the  contrary  errors  in  that  of  Square,  which  our 
good  man  no  less  saw  and  condemned.  He  thought,  indeed, 
that  the  different  exuberancies  of  these  gentlemen  would  correct 
their  different  imperfections ;  and  that  from  both,  especially 
with  his  assistance,  the  two  lads  would  derive  sufficient  precepts 
of  true  religion  and  virtue.  If  the  event  happened  contrary  to 
his  expectations,  this  possibly  proceeded  from  some  fault  in  the 
plan  itself ;  which  the  reader  hath  my  leave  to  discover,  if  he 
can  :  for  we  do  not  pretend  to  introduce  any  infallible  characters 
into  this  history ;  where  we  hope  nothing  will  be  found  which 
hath  never  yet  been  seen  in  human  nature. 

To  return  therefore :  the  reader  will  not,  I  think,  wonder  that 
the  different  behaviour  of  the  two  lads  above  commemorated, 
produced  the  different  effects  of  which  he  hath  already  seen  some 
instance  ;  and  besides  this,  there  was  another  reason  for  the  con- 
duct of  the  philosopher  and  the  pedagogue  ;  but  this  being  matter 
of  great  importance,  we  shall  reveal  it  in  the  next  chapter. 

CHAPTER  VI 

Containing  a  Better  Reason  still  for  the  before-mentioned 

Opinions 

It  is  to  be  known  then,  that  those  two  learned  personages, 
who  have  lately  made  a  considerable  figure  on  the  theatre  of 
this  history,  had,  from  their  first  arrival  at  Mr  Allworthy's 
house,  taken  so  great  an  affection,  the  one  to  his  virtue,  the  other 
to  his  religion,  that  they  had  meditated  the  closest  alliance  with 
him. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     329 

For  this  purpose  they  had  cast  their  eyes  on  that  fair  widow, 
whom,  though  we  have  not  for  some  time  made  any  mention  of 
her,  the  reader,  we  trust,  hath  not  forgot.  Mrs  Bhfil  was  indeed 
the  object  to  which  they  both  aspired. 

It  may  seem  remarkable,  that,  of  four  persons  whom  we  have 
commemorated  at  Mr  Allworthy's  house  three  of  them  should 
fix  their  incUnations  on  a  lady  who  was  never  greatly  celebrated 
for  her  beauty,  and  who  was,  moreover,  now  a  little  descended 
into  the  vale  of  years  ;  but  in  reality  bosom  friends,  and  intimate 
acquaintance,  have  a  kind  of  natural  propensity  to  particular 
females  at  the  house  of  a  friend  —  viz.,  to  his  grandmother, 
mother,  sister,  daughter,  aunt,  niece,  or  cousin,  when  they  are 
rich ;  and  to  his  wife,  sister,  daughter,  niece,  cousin,  mistress, 
or  servant-maid,  if  they  should  be  handsome. 

We  would  not,  however,  have  our  reader  imagine,  that  persons 
of  such  characters  as  were  supported  by  Thwackum  and  Square, 
would  undertake  a  matter  of  this  kind,  which  hath  been  a  little 
censured  by  some  rigid  moralists,  before  they  had  thoroughly 
examined  it,  and  considered  whether  it  was  (as  Shakespear 
phrases  it)  "Stuff  o'  th'  conscience,"  or  no.  Thwackum  was 
encouraged  to  the  undertaking  by  reflecting  that  to  covet  your 
neighbour's  sister  is  nowhere  forbidden :  and  he  knew  it  was  a 
rule  in  the  construction  of  all  laws,  that  "  Expressumfacit  cessare 
taciturn  J'  The  sense  of  which  is,  "When  a  lawgiver  sets  down 
plainly  his  whole  meaning,  we  are  prevented  from  making  him 
mean  what  we  please  ourselves."  As  some  instances  of  women, 
therefore,  are  mentioned  in  the  divine  law,  which  forbids  us  to 
covet  our  neighbour's  goods,  and  that  of  a  sister  omitted,  he 
concluded  it  to  be  lawful.  And  as  to  Square,  who  was  in  his 
person  what  is  called  a  jolly  fellow,  or  a  widow's  man,  he  easily 
reconciled  his  choice  to  the  eternal  fitness  of  things. 

Now,  as  both  of  these  gentlemen  were  industrious  in  taking 
every  opportunity  of  recommending  themselves  to  the  widow, 
they  apprehended  one  certain  method  was,  by  giving  her  son  the 
constant  preference  to  the  other  lad  ;  and  as  they  conceived  the 
kindness  and  affection  which  Mr  Allworthy  showed  the  latter, 
must  be  highly  disagreeable  to  her,  they  doubted  not  but  the 
laying  hold  on  all  occasions  to  degrade  and  vilify  him,  would  be 


330  HENRY  FIELDING 

highly  pleasing  to  her ;  who,  as  she  hated  the  boy,  must  love 
those  who  did  him  any  hurt.  In  this  Thwackum  had  the  ad- 
vantage ;  for  while  Square  could  only  scarify  the  poor  lad's 
reputation,  he  could  flea  his  skin ;  and,  indeed,  he  considered 
every  lash  he  gave  him  as  a  compliment  paid  to  his  mistress ; 
so  that  he  could,  with  the  utmost  propriety,  repeat  this  old 
flogging  hne,  "Castigo  te  non  quod  odio  habeam,  sed  quod  Amem. 
I  chastise  thee  not  out  of  hatred,  but  out  of  love."  And  this, 
indeed,  he  often  had  in  his  mouth,  or  rather,  according  to  the  old 
phrase,  never  more  properly  applied,  at  his  fingers'  ends. 

For  this  reason,  principally,  the  two  gentlemen  concurred,  as 
we  have  seen  above,  in  their  opinion  concerning  the  two  lads ; 
this  being,  indeed,  almost  the  only  instance  of  their  concurring 
on  any  point ;  for,  beside  the  difference  of  their  principles,  they 
had  both  long  ago  strongly  suspected  each  other's  design,  and 
hated  one  another  with  no  Httle  degree  of  inveteracy. 

This  mutual  animosity  was  a  good  deal  increased  by  their 
alternate  successes ;  for  Mrs  Blifil  knew  what  they  would  be  at 
long  before  they  imagined  it ;  or,  indeed,  intended  she  should : 
for  they  proceeded  with  great  caution,  lest  she  should  be  offended, 
and  acquaint  Mr  Allworthy.  But  they  had  no  reason  for  any 
such  fear ;  she  was  well  enough  pleased  with  a  passion,  of  which 
she  intended  none  should  have  any  fruits  but  herself.  And  the 
only  fruits  she  designed  for  herself  were,  flattery  and  courtship ; 
for  which  purpose  she  soothed  them  by  turns,  and  a  long  time 
equally.  She  was,  indeed,  rather  inclined  to  favour  the  parson's 
principles ;  but  Square's  person  was  more  agreeable  to  her  eye, 
for  he  was  a  comely  man  ;  whereas  the  pedagogue  did  in  counte- 
nance very  nearly  resemble  that  gentleman,  who,  in  the  Harlot's 
Progress,  is  seen  correcting  the  ladies  in  Bridewell. 

Whether  Mrs  BUfil  had  been  surfeited  with  the  sweets  of  mar- 
riage, or  disgusted  by  its  bitters,  or  from  what  other  cause  it 
proceeded,  I  will  not  determine ;  but  she  could  never  be  brought 
to  listen  to  any  second  proposals.  However,  she  at  last  conversed 
with  Square  with  such  a  degree  of  intimacy  that  malicious  tongues 
began  to  whisper  things  of  her,  to  which,  as  well  for  the  sake  of 
the  lady,  as  that  they  were  highly  disagreeable  to  the  rule  of 
right  and  the  fitness  of  things,  we  will  give  no  credit,  and  therefore 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     331 

shall  not  blot  our  paper  with  them.     The  pedagogue,  'tis  certain, 
whipped  on,  without  getting  a  step  nearer  to  his  journey's  end. 

Indeed  he  had  committed  a  great  error,  and  that  Square 
discovered  much  sooner  than  himself.  Mrs  Bhfil  (as,  perhaps, 
the  reader  may  have  formerly  guessed)  was  not  over  and  above 
pleased  with  the  behaviour  of  her  husband ;  nay,  to  be  honest, 
she  absolutely  hated  him,  till  his  death  at  last  a  little  reconciled 
him  to  her  affections.  It  will  not  be  therefore  greatly  wondered 
at,  if  she  had  not  the  most  violent  regard  to  the  offspring  she  had 
by  him.  And,  in  fact,  she  had  so  little  of  this  regard,  that  in 
his  infancy  she  seldom  saw  her  son,  or  took  any  notice  of  him ; 
and  hence  she  acquiesced,  after  a  little  reluctance,  in  all  the  fa- 
vours which  Mr  Allworthy  showered  on  the  foundling ;  whom 
the  good  man  called  his  own  boy,  and  in  all  things  put  on  an 
entire  equality  with  Master  Blifil.  This  acquiescence  in  Mrs 
Blifil  was  considered  by  the  neighbours,  and  by  the  family,  as  a 
mark  of  her  condescension  to  her  brother's  humour,  and  she  was 
imagined  by  all  others,  as  well  as  Thwackum  and  Square,  to  hate 
the  foundling  in  her  heart ;  nay,  the  more  civility  she  showed  him, 
the  more  they  conceived  she  detested  him,  and  the  surer  schemes 
she  was  laying  for  his  ruin  :  for  as  they  thought  it  her  inter- 
est to  hate  him,  it  was  very  difficult  for  her  to  persuade  them  she 
did  not. 

Thwackum  was  the  more  confirmed  in  his  opinion,  as  she  had 
more  than  once  slily  caused  him  to  whip  Tom  Jones,  when  Mr 
Allworthy,  who  was  an  enemy  to  this  exercise,  was  abroad ; 
whereas  she  had  never  given  any  such  orders  concerning  young 
Blifil.  And  this  had  likewise  imposed  upon  Square.  In  reality, 
though  she  certainly  hated  her  own  son  —  of  which,  however 
monstrous  it  appears,  I  am  assured  she  is  not  a  singular  instance 
—  she  appeared,  notwithstanding  all  her  outward  compliance, 
to  be  in  her  heart  sufficiently  displeased  with  all  the  favour 
shown  by  Mr  Allworthy  to  the  foundling.  She  frequently  com- 
plained of  this  behind  her  brother's  back,  and  very  sharply 
censured  him  for  it,  both  to  Thwackum  and  Square ;  nay,  she 
would  throv/  it  in  the  teeth  of  Allworthy  himself,  when  a  httle 
quarrel,  or  miff,  as  it  is  vulgarly  called,  arose  between  them. 
However,  when  Tom  grew  up,  and  gave  tokens  of  that  gallantry 


332  HENRY  FIELDING 

of  temper  which  greatly  recommends  men  to  women,  this  disin- 
cHnation  which  she  had  discovered  to  him  when  a  child,  by  de- 
grees abated,  and  at  last  she  so  evidently  demonstrated  her 
affection  to  him  to  be  much  stronger  than  what  she  bore  her  own 
son,  that  it  was  impossible  to  mistake  her  any  longer.  She  was 
so  desirous  of  often  seeing  him,  and  discovered  such  satisfaction 
and  delight  in  his  company,  that  before  he  was  eighteen  years 
old  he  was  become  a  rival  to  both  Square  and  Thwackum ;  and 
what  is  worse,  the  whole  country  began  to  talk  as  loudly  of  her 
inclination  to  Tom,  as  they  had  before  done  of  that  which  she 
had  shown  to  Square :  on  which  account  the  philosopher  con- 
ceived the  most  implacable  hatred  for  our  poor  heroe. 

CHAPTER  VII 

In  which  the  Author  himself  makes  his  Appearance  on 

THE  Stage 

Though  Mr  Allworthy  was  not  of  himself  hasty  to  see  things 
in  a  disadvantageous  light,  and  was  a  stranger  to  the  public 
voice,  which  seldom  reaches  to  a  brother  or  a  husband,  though  it 
rings  in  the  ears  of  all  the  neighbourhood  ;  yet  was  this  affection 
of  Mrs  Blifil  to  Tom,  and  the  preference  which  she  too  visibly  gave 
him  to  her  own  son,  of  the  utmost  disadvantage  to  that  youth. 

For  such  was  the  compassion  which  inhabited  Mr  Allworthy's 
mind,  that  nothing  but  the  steel  of  justice  could  ever  subdue  it. 
To  be  unfortunate  in  any  respect  was  sufficient,  if  there  was  no 
demerit  to  counterpoise  it,  to  turn  the  scale  of  that  good  man's 
pity,  and  to  engage  his  friendship  and  his  benefaction. 

When  therefore  he  plainly  saw  Master  BHfil  was  absolutely 
detested  (for  that  he  was)  by  his  own  mother,  he  began,  on  that 
account  only,  to  look  with  an  eye  of  compassion  upon  him  ;  and 
what  the  effects  of  compassion  are,  in  good  and  benevolent  minds, 
I  need  not  here  explain  to  most  of  my  readers. 

Henceforward  he  saw  every  appearance  of  virtue  in  the  youth 
through  the  magnifying  end,  and  viewed  all  his  faults  with  the 
glass  inverted,  so  that  they  became  scarce  perceptible.  And 
this  perhaps  the  amiable  temper  of  pity  may  make  commendable  ; 
but  the  next  step  the  weakness  of  human  nature  alone  must 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     7,7^7, 

excuse ;  for  he  no  sooner  perceived  that  preference  which  Mrs 
BUfil  gave  to  Tom,  than  that  poor  youth  (however  innocent) 
began  to  sink  in  his  affections  as  he  rose  in  hers.  This,  it  is 
true,  would  of  itself  alone  never  have  been  able  to  eradicate 
Jones  from  his  bosom ;  but  it  was  greatly  injurious  to  him,  and 
prepared  Mr  Allworthy's  mind  for  those  impressions  which 
afterwards  produced  the  mighty  events  that  will  be  contained 
hereafter  in  this  history ;  and  to  which,  it  must  be  confest,  the 
unfortunate  lad,  by  his  own  wantonness,  wildness,  and  want 
of  caution,  too  much  contributed. 

In  recording  some  instances  of  these,  we  shall,  if  rightly  under- 
stood, afford  a  very  useful  lesson  to  those  well-disposed  youths 
who  shall  hereafter  be  our  readers ;  for  they  may  here  find,  that 
goodness  of  heart,  and  openness  of  temper,  though  these  may  give 
them  great  comfort  within,  and  administer  to  an  honest  pride  in 
their  own  minds,  will  by  no  means,  alas  !  do  their  business  in 
the  world.  Prudence  and  circumspection  are  necessary  even  to 
the  best  of  men.  They  are  indeed,  as  it  were,  a  guard  to  Virtue, 
without  which  she  can  never  be  safe.  It  is  not  enough  that  your 
designs,  nay,  that  your  actions,  are  intrinsically  good  ;  you  must 
take  care  they  shall  appear  so.  If  your  inside  be  never  so  beauti- 
ful, you  must  preserve  a  fair  outside  also.  This  must  be  con- 
stantly looked  to,  or  malice  and  envy  will  take  care  to  blacken  it 
so,  that  the  sagacity  and  goodness  of  an  Allworthy  will  not  be  able 
to  see  through  it,  and  to  discern  the  beauties  within.  Let  this, 
my  young  readers,  be  your  constant  maxim,  that  no  man  can  be 
good  enough  to  enable  him  to  neglect  the  rules  of  prudence ;  nor 
will  Virtue  herself  look  beautiful,  unless  she  be  bedecked  with  the 
outward  ornaments  of  decency  and  decorum.  And  this  precept, 
my  worthy  disciples,  if  you  read  with  due  attention,  you  will,  I 
hope,  find  sufficiently  enforced  by  examples  in  the  following  pages. 

I  ask  pardon  for  this  short  appearance,  by  way  of  chorus,  on 
the  stage.  It  is  in  reality  for  my  own  sake,  that,  while  I  am  dis- 
covering the  rocks  on  which  innocence  and  goodness  often  split, 
I  may  not  be  misunderstood  to  recommend  the  very  means  to 
my  worthy  readers,  by  which  I  intend  to  show  them  they  will  be 
undone.  And  this,  as  I  could  not  prevail  on  any  of  my  actors 
to  speak,  I  myself  was  obliged  to  declare. 


334  HENRY  FIELDING 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  Childish  Incident,  in  which,  however,  is  seen  a  Good- 
natured  Disposition  in  Tom  Jones 

The  reader  may  remember  that  Mr  Allworthy  gave  Tom  Jones 
a  little  horse,  as  a  kind  of  smart-money  for  the  punishment  which 
he  imagined  he  had  suffered  innocently. 

This  horse  Tom  kept  above  half  a  year,  and  then  rode  him  to  a 
neighbouring  fair,  and  sold  him. 

At  his  return,  being  questioned  by  Thwackum  what  he  had 
done  with  the  money  for  which  the  horse  was  sold,  he  frankly 
declared  he  would  not  tell  him. 

" Oho  ! "  says  Thwackum,  "you  will  not !  then  I  will  have  it  out 
of  your  br — h  ; "  that  being  the  place  to  which  he  always  applied 
for  information  on  every  doubtful  occasion. 

Tom  was  now  mounted  on  the  back  of  a  footman,  and  every- 
thing prepared  for  execution,  when  Mr  Allworthy,  entering  the 
room,  gave  the  criminal  a  reprieve,  and  took  him  with  him  into 
another  apartment ;  where,  being  alone  with  Tom,  he  put  the 
same  question  to  him  which  Thwackum  had  before  asked  him. 

Tom  answered,  he  could  in  duty  refuse  him  nothing ;  but  as 
for  that  tyrannical  rascal,  he  would  never  make  him  any  other 
answer  than  with  a  cudgel,  with  which  he  hoped  soon  to  be  able 
to  pay  him  for  all  his  barbarities. 

Mr  Allworthy  very  severely  reprimanded  the  lad  for  his  in- 
decent and  disrespectful  expressions  concerning  his  master ; 
but  nuicli  more  for  his  avowing  an  intention  of  revenge.  He 
threatened  him  with  the  entire  loss  of  his  favour,  if  he  ever  heard 
such  another  word  from  his  mouth ;  for,  he  said,  he  would  never 
support  or  befriend  a  reprobate.  By  these  and  the  like  declara- 
tions, he  extorted  some  compunction  from  Tom,  in  which  that 
youth  was  not  over-sincere ;  for  he  really  meditated  some  return 
for  all  the  smarting  favours  he  had  received  at  the  hands  of  the 
pedagogue.  He  was,  however,  brought  by  Mr  Allworthy  to 
express  a  concern  for  his  resentment  against  Thwackum ;  and 
then  the  good  man,  after  some  wholesome  admonition,  permitted 
him  to  proceed,  which  he  did  as  follows:  — 


THE   HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     335 

"Indeed,  my  dear  sir,  I  love  and  honour  you  more  than  all 
the  world  :  I  know  the  great  obligations  I  have  to  you,  and  should 
detest  myself  if  I  thought  my  heart  was  capable  of  ingratitude. 
Could  the  httle  horse  you  gave  me  speak,  I  am  sure  he  could  tell 
you  how  fond  I  was  of  your  present ;  for  I  had  more  pleasure  in 
feeding  him  than  in  riding  him.  Indeed,  sir,  it  went  to  my  heart 
to  part  with  him ;  nor  would  I  have  sold  him  upon  any  other 
account  in  the  world  than  what  I  did.  You  yourself,  sir,  I  am 
convinced,  in  my  case,  would  have  done  the  same  :  for  none  ever 
so  sensibly  felt  the  misfortunes  of  others.  What  would  you  feel, 
dear  sir,  if  you  thought  yourself  the  occasion  of  them  ?  Indeed, 
sir,  there  never  was  any  misery  like  theirs." 

"Like  whose,  child  ?  "  says  Allworthy  :  "What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Oh,  sir  !"  answered  Tom,  "your  poor  gamekeeper,  with  all 
his  large  family,  ever  since  your  discarding  him,  have  been 
perishing  with  all  the  miseries  of  cold  and  hunger :  I  could  not 
bear  to  see  these  poor  wretches  naked  and  starving,  and  at  the 
same  time  know  myself  to  have  been  the  occasion  of  all  their 
sufferings.  I  could  not  bear  it,  sir  ;  upon  my  soul,  I  could  not." 
[Here  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  thus  proceeded.] 
"It  was  to  save  them  from  absolute  destruction  I  parted  with 
your  dear  present,  notwithstanding  all  the  value  I  had  for  it : 
I  sold  the  horse  for  them,  and  they  have  every  farthing  of  the 
money." 

Mr  Allworthy  now  stood  silent  for  some  moments,  and  before 
he  spoke  the  tears  started  from  his  eyes.  He  at  length  dismissed 
Tom  with  a  gentle  rebuke,  advising  him  for  the  future  to  apply 
to  him  in  cases  of  distress,  rather  than  to  use  extraordinary  means 
of  relieving  them  himself. 

This  affair  was  afterwards  the  subject  of  much  debate  between 
Thwackum  and  Square.  Thwackum  held,  that  this  was  flying 
in  Mr  AUworthy's  face,  who  had  intended  to  punish  the  fellow 
for  his  disobedience.  He  said,  in  some  instances,  what  the  world 
called  charity  appeared  to  him  to  be  opposing  the  will  of  the 
Almighty,  which  had  marked  some  particular  persons  for  destruc- 
tion ;  and  that  this  was  in  like  manner  acting  in  opposition  to  Mr 
Allworthy  ;  concluding,  as  usual,  with  a  hearty  recommendation 
of  birch. 


336  HENRY  FIELDING 

Square  argued  strongly  on  the  other  side,  in  opposition  perhaps 
to  Thwackum,  or  in  compHance  with  Mr  AUworthy,  who  seemed 
very  much  to  approve  what  Jones  had  done.  As  to  what  he  urged 
on  this  occasion,  as  I  am  convinced  most  of  my  readers  will  be 
much  abler  advocates  for  poor  Jones,  it  would  be  impertinent 
to  relate  it.  Indeed  it  was  not  difficult  to  reconcile  to  the  rule 
of  right  an  action  which  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  deduce 
from  the  rule  of  wrong. 

CHAPTER  rX 

Containing  an  Incident  or   a  more  Heinous   Kind,  with  the 
Comments  of  Thwackum  and  Square 

It  hath  been  observed  by  some  man  of  much  greater  reputation 
for  wisdom  than  myself,  that  misfortunes  seldom  come  single. 
An  instance  of  this  may,  I  believe,  be  seen  in  those  gentlemen 
who  have  the  misfortune  to  have  any  of  their  rogueries  detected  ; 
for  here  discovery  seldom  stops  till  the  whole  is  come  out.  Thus 
it  happened  to  poor  Tom ;  who  was  no  sooner  pardoned  for  selhng 
the  horse,  than  he  was  discovered  to  have  some  time  before  sold 
a  fine  Bible  which  Mr  AUworthy  gave  him,  the  money  arising  from 
which  sale  he  had  disposed  of  in  the  same  manner.  This  Bible 
Master  Blifil  had  purchased,  though  he  had  already  such  another 
of  his  own,  partly  out  of  respect  for  the  book,  and  partly  out  of 
friendship  to  Tom,  being  unwilling  that  the  Bible  should  be  sold 
out  of  the  family  at  half-price.  He  therefore  deposited  the  said 
half-price  himself ;  for  he  was  a  very  prudent  lad,  and  so  careful 
of  his  money,  that  he  had  laid  up  almost  every  penny  which  he 
had  received  from  Mr  AUworthy. 

Some  people  have  been  noted  to  be  able  to  read  in  no  book  but 
their  own.  On  the  contrary,  from  the  time  when  Master  Blifil 
was  first  possessed  of  this  Bible,  he  never  used  any  other.  Nay, 
he  was  seen  reading  in  it  much  oftener  than  he  had  before  been 
in  his  own.  Now,  as  he  frequently  asked  Thwackum  to  explain 
difficult  passages  to  him,  that  gentleman  unfortunately  took 
notice  of  Tom's  name,  which  was  written  in  many  parts  of  the 
book.  This  brought  on  an  inquiry,  which  obliged  Master  Blifil 
to  discover  the  whole  matter. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     337 

Thwackum  was  resolved  a  crime  of  this  kind,  which  he  called 
sacrilege,  should  not  go  unpunished.  He  therefore  proceeded 
immediately  to  castigation :  and  not  contented  with  that  he 
acquainted  Mr  Allworthy,  at  their  next  meeting,  with  this  mon- 
strous crime,  as  it  appeared  to  him :  inveighing  against  Tom  in 
the  most  bitter  terms,  and  likening  him  to  the  buyers  and  sellers 
who  were  driven  out  of  the  temple. 

Square  saw  this  matter  in  a  very  different  light.  He  said, 
he  could  not  perceive  any  higher  crime  in  seUing  one  book  than 
in  selhng  another.  That  to  sell  Bibles  was  strictly  lawful  by 
all  laws  both  Divine  and  human,  and  consequently  there  was 
no  unfitness  in  it.  He  told  Thwackum,  that  his  great  concern 
on  this  occasion  brought  to  his  mind  the  story  of  a  very  devout 
woman,  who,  out  of  pure  regard  to  religion,  stole  Tillotson's 
Sermons  from  a  lady  of  her  acquaintance. 

This  story  caused  a  vast  quantity  of  blood  to  rush  into  the 
parson's  face,  which  of  itself  was  none  of  the  palest ;  and  he  was 
going  to  reply  with  great  warmth  and  anger,  had  not  Mrs  Blifil, 
who  was  present  at  this  debate,  interposed.  That  lady  declared 
herself  absolutely  of  Mr  Square's  side.  She  argued,  indeed, 
very  learnedly  in  support  of  his  opinion ;  and  concluded  with 
saying,  if  Tom  had  been  guilty  of  any  fault,  she  must  confess 
her  own  son  appeared  to  be  equally  culpable  ;  for  that  she  could 
see  no  difference  between  the  buyer  and  the  seller;  both  of 
whom  were  alike  to  be  driven  out  of  the  temple. 

Mrs  BHlil  having  declared  her  opinion,  put  an  end  to  the 
debate.  Square's  triumph  would  almost  have  stopt  his  words, 
had  he  needed  them ;  and  Thwackum,  who,  for  reasons  before- 
mentioned,  durst  not  venture  at  disobhging  the  lady,  was  almost 
choaked  with  indignation.  As  to  Mr  Allworthy,  he  said,  since 
the  boy  had  been  already  punished  he  would  not  deliver  his 
sentiments  on  the  occasion ;  and  whether  he  was  or  was  not 
angry  with  the  lad,  I  must  leave  to  the  reader's  own  conjecture. 

Soon  after  this,  an  action  was  brought  against  the  gamekeeper 
by  Squire  Western  (the  gentleman  in  whose  manor  the  partridge 
was  killed),  for  depredations  of  the  like  kind.  This  was  a  most 
unfortunate  circumstance  for  the  fellow,  as  it  not  only  of  itself 
threatened  his  ruin,  but  actually  prevented  Mr  Allworthy  from 


338  HENRY  FIELDING 

restoring  him  to  his  favour:  for  as  that  gentleman  was  walking 
out  one  evening  with  Master  Blifil  and  young  Jones,  the  latter 
slily  drew  him  to  the  habitation  of  Black  George ;  where  the 
family  of  that  poor  wretch,  namely,  his  wife  and  children,  were 
found  in  all  the  misery  with  which  cold,  hunger,  and  nakedness, 
can  affect  human  creatures :  for  as  to  the  money  they  had  re- 
ceived from  Jones,  former  debts  had  consumed  almost  the  whole. 

Such  a  scene  as  this  could  not  fail  of  affecting  the  heart  of 
Mr  Allworthy.  He  immediately  gave  the  mother  a  couple  of 
guineas,  with  which  he  bid  her  cloath  her  children.  The  poor 
woman  burst  into  tears  at  this  goodness,  and  while  she  was 
thanking  him,  could  not  refrain  from  expressing  her  gratitude 
to  Tom;  who  had,  she  said,  long  preserved  both  her  and  hers 
from  starving.  "We  have  not,"  says  she,  "had  a  morsel  to 
eat,  nor  have  these  poor  children  had  a  rag  to  put  on,  but  what 
his  goodness  hath  bestowed  on  us."  For,  indeed,  besides  the 
horse  and  the  Bible,  Tom  had  sacrificed  a  night-gown,  and  other 
things,  to  the  use  of  this  distressed  family. 

On  their  return  home,  Tom  made  use  of  all  his  eloquence  to 
display  the  wretchedness  of  these  people,  and  the  penitence  of 
Black  George  himself ;  and  in  this  he  succeeded  so  well,  that  Mr 
Allworthy  said,  he  thought  the  man  had  suffered  enough  for 
what  was  past ;  that  he  would  forgive  him,  and  think  of  some 
means  of  providing  for  him  and  his  family. 

Jones  was  so  delighted  with  this  news,  that,  though  it  was 
dark  when  they  returned  home,  he  could  not  help  going  back  a 
mile,  in  a  shower  of  rain,  to  acquaint  the  poor  woman  with  the 
glad  tidings ;  but,  like  other  hasty  divulgers  of  news,  he  only 
brought  on  himself  the  trouble  of  contradicting  it :  for  the  ill- 
fortune  of  Black  George  made  use  of  the  very  opportunity  of  his 
friend's  absence  to  overturn  all  again. 

CHAPTER  X 
In  which  Master  Blifil  and  Jones  appear  in  Different  Lights 

Master  Blifil  fell  very  short  of  his  companion  in  the  amiable 
quality  of  mercy ;  but  he  as  greatly  exceeded  him  in  one  of  a 
much  higher  kind,  namely,  in  justice  :  in  which  he  followed  both 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     339 

the  precepts  and  example  of  Thwackum  and  Square ;  for  though 
they  would  both  make  frequent  use  of  the  word  mercy,  yet  it 
was  plain  that  in  reality  Square  held  it  to  be  inconsistent  with 
the  rule  of  right ;  and  Thwackum  was  for  doing  justice,  and  leav- 
ing mercy  to  heaven.  The  two  gentlemen  did  indeed  somewhat 
differ  in  opinion  concerning  the  objects  of  this  subhme  virtue ; 
by  which  Thwackum  would  probably  have  destroyed  one  half 
of  mankind,  and  Square  the  other  half. 

Master  Blilil  then,  though  he  had  kept  silence  in  the  presence 
of  Jones,  yet,  when  he  had  better  considered  the  matter,  could 
by  no  means  endure  the  thought  of  suffering  his  uncle  to  confer 
favours  on  the  undeserving.  He  therefore  resolved  immediately 
to  acquaint  him  with  the  fact  which  we  have  above  slightly 
hinted  to  the  readers.     The  truth  of  which  was  as  follows : 

The  gamekeeper,  about  a  year  after  he  was  dismissed  from 
Mr  Allworthy's  service,  and  before  Tom's  selling  the  horse,  being 
in  want  of  bread,  either  to  hll  his  own  mouth  or  those  of  his 
family,  as  he  passed  through  a  held  belonging  to  Mr  Western 
espied  a  hare  sitting  in  her  form.  This  hare  he  had  basely  and 
barbarously  knocked  on  the  head,  against  the  laws  of  the  land, 
and  no  less  against  the  laws  of  sportsmen. 

The  higgler  to  whom  the  hare  was  sold,  being  unfortunately 
taken  many  months  after  with  a  quantity  of  game  upon  him, 
was  obliged  to  make  his  peace  with  the  squire,  by  becoming 
evidence  against  some  poacher.  And  now  Black  George  was 
pitched  upon  by  him,  as  being  a  person  already  obnoxious  to 
Mr  Western,  and  one  of  no  good  fame  in  the  country.  He  was, 
besides,  the  best  sacrifice  the  higgler  could  make,  as  he  had  sup- 
phed  him  with  no  game  since  ;  and  by  this  means  the  witness  had 
an  opportunity  of  screening  his  better  customers  :  for  the  squire, 
being  charmed  with  the  power  of  punishing  Black  George,  whom  a 
single  transgression  was  sufficient  to  ruin,  made  no  further  enquiry. 

Had  this  fact  been  truly  laid  before  Mr  Allworthy,  it  might 
probably  have  done  the  gamekeeper  ver}'  little  mischief.  But 
there  is  no  zeal  blinder  than  that  which  is  inspired  with  the  love 
of  justice  against  offenders.  Master  Bhfil  had  forgot  the  distance 
of  the  time.  He  varied  likewise  in  the  manner  of  the  fact : 
and  by  the  hasty  addition  of  the  single  letter  S  he  considerably 


340  HENRY  FIELDING 

altered  the  story ;  for  he  said  that  George  had  wired  hares. 
These  alterations  might  probably  have  been  set  right,  had  not 
Master  Blifil  unluckily  insisted  on  a  promise  of  secrecy  from 
Mr  Allworthy  before  he  revealed  the  matter  to  him  ;  but  by  that 
means  the  poor  gamekeeper  was  condemned  without  having  an 
opportunity  to  defend  himself :  for  as  the  fact  of  killing  the  hare, 
and  of  the  action  brought,  were  certainly  true,  Mr  Allworthy 
had  no  doubt  concerning  the  rest. 

Short-lived  then  was  the  joy  of  these  poor  people ;  for  Mr 
Allworthy  the  next  morning  declared  he  had  fresh  reason,  with- 
out assigning  it,  for  his  anger,  and  strictly  forbad  Tom  to  mention 
George  any  more :  though  as  for  his  family,  he  said  he  would 
endeavour  to  keep  them  from  starving ;  but  as  to  the  fellow 
himself,  he  would  leave  him  to  the  laws,  which  nothing  could 
keep  him  from  breaking. 

Tom  could  by  no  means  divine  what  had  incensed  Mr  All- 
worthy,  for  of  Master  Bhfil  he  had  not  the  least  suspicion. 
However,  as  his  friendship  was  to  be  tired  out  by  no  disap- 
pointments, he  now  determined  to  try  another  method  of  pre- 
serving the  poor  gamekeeper  from  ruin. 

Jones  was  lately  grown  very  intimate  with  Mr  Western.  He 
had  so  greatly  recommended  himself  to  that  gentleman,  by 
leaping  over  five-barred  gates,  and  by  other  acts  of  sportsman- 
ship, that  the  squire  had  declared  Tom  would  certainly  make  a 
great  man  if  he  had  but  sufficient  encouragement.  He  often 
wished  he  had  himself  a  son  with  such  parts ;  and  one  day  very 
solemnly  asserted  at  a  drinking  bout,  that  Tom  should  hunt  a 
pack  of  hounds  for  a  thousand  pound  of  his  money,  with  any 
huntsman  in  the  whole  country. 

By  such  kind  of  talents  he  had  so  ingratiated  himself  with 
the  squire,  that  he  was  a  most  welcome  guest  at  his  table,  and  a 
favourite  companion  in  his  sport :  everything  which  the  squire 
held  most  dear,  to  wit,  his  guns,  dogs,  and  horses,  were  now  as 
much  at  the  command  of  Jones,  as  if  they  had  been  his  own. 
He  resolved  therefore  to  make  use  of  this  favour  on  behalf  of 
his  friend  Black  George,  whom  he  hoped  to  introduce  into  Mr 
Western's  family,  in  the  same  capacity  in  which  he  had  before 
served  Mr  Allworthy. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     341 

The  reader,  if  he  considers  that  this  fellow  was  already  ob- 
noxious to  Mr  Western,  and  if  he  considers  farther  the  weighty 
business  by  which  that  gentleman's  displeasure  had  been  in- 
curred, will  perhaps  condemn  this  as  a  foolish  and  desperate 
undertaking ;  but  if  he  should  totally  condemn  young  Jones  on 
that  account,  he  will  greatly  applaud  him  for  strengthening 
himself  with  all  imaginable  interest  on  so  arduous  an  occasion. 
.  For  this  purpose,  then,  Tom  applied  to  Mr  Western's  daughter, 
a  young  lady  of  about  seventeen  years  of  age,  whom  her  father, 
next  after  thosfe  necessary  implements  of  sport  just  before  men- 
tioned, loved  and  esteemed  above  all  the  world.  Now,  as  she 
had  some  influence  on  the  squire,  so  Tom  had  some  little  in- 
fluence on  her.  But  this  being  the  intended  heroine  of  this 
work,  a  lady  with  whom  we  ourselves  are  greatly  in  love,  and 
with  whom  many  of  our  readers  will  probably  be  in  love,  too, 
before  we  part,  it  is  by  no  means  proper  she  should  make  her 
appearance  at  the  end  of  a  book. 

CONTAINING   THE   TIME   OF   A  YEAR 

BOOK  IV.     CHAPTER   I 

Containing  Five  Pages  of  Paper 

As  truth  distinguishes  our  writings  from  those  idle  romances 
which  are  filled  with  monsters,  the  productions,  not  of  nature, 
but  of  distempered  brains  ;  and  which  have  been  therefore  recom- 
mended by  an  eminent  critic  to  the  sole  use  of  the  pastry-cook ; 
so,  on  the  other  hand,  we  would  avoid  any  resemblance  to  that 
kind  of  history  which  a  celebrated  poet  seems  to  think  is  no  less 
calculated  for  the  emolument  of  the  brewer,  as  the  reading  it 
should  be  always  attended  with  a  tankard  of  good  ale  — 

While  —  history  with  her  comrade  ale, 
Soothes  the  sad  series  of  her  serious  tale. 

For  as  this  is  the  liquor  of  modern  historians,  nay,  perhaps 
their  muse,  if  we  may  believe  the  opinion  of  Butler,  who  attrib- 
utes inspiration  to  ale,  it  ought  likewise  to  be  the  potation  of 
their  readers,  since  every  book  ought  to  be  read  with  the  same 
spirit  and  in  the  same  manner  as  it  is  writ.     Thus  the  famous 


342  HENRY  FIELDING 

author  of  Hurlothrumbo  told  a  learned  bishop,  that  the  reason 
his  lordship  could  not  taste  the  excellence  of  his  piece  was,  that 
he  did  not  read  it  with  a  fiddle  in  his  hand;  which  instrument 
he  himself  had  always  had  in  his  own,  when  he  composed  it. 

That  our  work,  therefore,  might  be  in  no  danger  of  being 
likened  to  the  labours  of  these  historians,  we  have  taken  every 
occasion  of  interspersing  through  the  whole  sundry  similes,  de- 
scriptions, and  other  kind  of  poetical  embellishments.  These 
are,  indeed,  designed  to  supply  the  place  of  the  said  ale,  and  to 
refresh  the  mind,  whenever  those  slumbers,  which'in  a  long  work 
are  apt  to  invade  the  reader  as  well  as  the  writer,  shall  begin  to 
creep  upon  him.  Without  interruptions  of  this  kind,  the  best 
narrative  of  plain  matter  of  fact  must  overpower  every  reader ; 
for  nothing  but  the  everlasting  watchfulness,  which  Homer  has 
ascribed  only  to  Jove  himself,  can  be  proof  against  a  newspaper 
of  many  volumes. 

We  shall  leave  to  the  reader  to  determine  with  what  judgment 
we  have  chosen  the  several  occasions  for  inserting  those  orna- 
mental parts  of  our  work.  Surely  it  will  be  allowed  that  none 
could  be  more  proper  than  the  present,  where  we  are  about  to 
introduce  a  considerable  character  on  the  scene  ;  no  less,  indeed, 
than  the  heroine  of  this  heroic,  historical,  prosaic  poem.  Here, 
therefore,  we  have  thought  proper  to  prepare  the  mind  of  the 
reader  for  her  reception,  by  filling  it  with  every  pleasing  image 
which  we  can  draw  from  the  face  of  nature.  And  for  this  method 
we  plead  many  precedents.  First,  this  is  an  art  well  known 
to,  and  much  practised  by,  our  tragick  poets,  who  seldom  fail 
to  prepare  their  audience  for  the  reception  of  their  principal 
characters. 

Thus  the  heroe  is  always  introduced  with  a  flourish  of  drums 
and  trumpets,  in  order  to  rouse  a  martial  spirit  in  the  audience, 
and  to  accommodate  their  ears  to  bombast  and  fustian,  which 
Mr  Locke's  blind  man  would  not  have  grossly  erred  in  likening 
to  the  sound  of  a  trumpet.  Again,  when  lovers  are  coming  forth, 
soft  music  often  conducts  them  on  the  stage,  either  to  soothe  the 
audience  with  the  softness  of  the  tender  passion,  or  to  lull  and 
prepare  them  for  that  gentle  slumber  in  which  they  will  most 
probably  be  composed  by  the  ensuing  scene. 


THE   HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     343 

And  not  only  the  poets,  but  the  masters  of  these  poets,  the 
managers  of  playhouses,  seem  to  be  in  this  secret;  for,  besides 
the  aforesaid  kettle-drums,  &c.,  which  denote  the  heroe's  ap- 
proach, he  is  generally  ushered  on  the  stage  by  a  large  troop  of 
half  a  dozen  scene-shifters  ;  and  how  necessary  these  are  imagined 
to  his  appearance,  may  be  concluded  from  the  following  theatri- 
cal story :  — 

King  Pyrrhus  was  at  dinner  at  an  ale-house  bordering  on  the 
theatre,  when  he  was  summoned  to  go  on  the  stage.  The  heroe, 
being  unwilling  to  quit  his  shoulder  of  mutton,  and  as  unwilling 
to  draw  on  himself  the  indignation  of  Mr  Wilks  (his  brother- 
manager)  for  making  the  audience  wait,  had  bribed  these  his 
harbingers  to  be  out  of  the  way.  While  Mr  Wilks,  therefore, 
was  thundering  out,  "Where  are  the  carpenters  to  walk  on 
before  King  Pyrrhus?"  that  monarch  very  quietly  eat  his 
mutton,  and  the  audience  however  impatient,  were  obliged  to 
entertain  themselves  with  music  in  his  absence. 

To  be  plain,  I  much  question  whether  the  politician,  who  hath 
generally  a  good  nose,  hath  not  scented  out  somewhat  of  the 
utility  of  this  practice.  I  am  convinced  that  awful  magistrate 
my  lord-mayor  contracts  a  good  deal  of  that  reverence  which 
attends  him  through  the  year,  by  the  several  pageants  which 
precede  his  pomp.  Nay,  I  must  confess,  that  even  I  myself, 
who  am  not  remarkably  liable  to  be  captivated  with  show,  have 
yielded  not  a  little  to  the  impressions  of  much  preceding  state. 
When  I  have  seen  a  man  strutting  in  a  procession,  after  others 
whose  business  was  only  to  walk  before  him,  I  have  conceived 
a  higher  notion  of  his  dignity  than  I  have  felt  on  seeing  him  in 
a  common  situation.  But  there  is  one  instance,  which  comes 
exactly  up  to  my  purpose.  This  is  the  custom  of  sending  on  a 
basket-woman,  who  is  to  precede  the  pomp  at  a  coronation, 
and  to  strew  the  stage  with  flowers,  before  the  great  personages 
begin  their  procession.  The  antients  would  certainly  have 
invoked  the  goddess  Flora  for  this  purpose,  and  it  would  have 
been  no  difficulty  for  their  priests,  or  politicians  to  have  per- 
suaded the  people  of  the  real  presence  of  the  deity,  though  a 
plain  mortal  had  personated  her  and  performed  her  office.  But 
we  have  no  such  design  of  imposing  on  our  reader  ;  and  therefore 


344  HENRY  FIELDING 

those  who  object  to  the  heathen  theology,  may,  if  they  please, 
change  our  goddess  into  the  above-mentioned  basket-woman. 
Our  intention,  in  short,  is  to  introduce  our  heroine  with  the 
utmost  solemnity  in  our  power,  with  an  elevation  of  stile,  and 
all  other  circumstances  proper  to  raise  the  veneration  of  our 
reader.  Indeed  we  would,  for  certain  causes,  advise  those  of 
our  male  readers  who  have  any  hearts,  to  read  no  farther,  were 
we  not  well  assured,  that  how  amiable  soever  the  picture  of  our 
heroine  will  appear,  as  it  is  really  a  copy  from  nature,  many  of 
our  fair  countrywomen  will  be  found  worthy  to  satisfy  any  pas- 
sion, and  to  answer  any  idea  of  female  perfection  which  our 
pencil  will  be  able  to  raise. 

And  now,  without  any  further  preface,  we  proceed  to  our  next 
chapter. 

CHAPTER  II 

A  Short  Hint  of  what  we  can  do  in  the  Sublime,  and  a 
Description  of  Miss  Sophia  Western 

Hushed  be  every  ruder  breath.  May  the  heathen  ruler  of 
the  winds  confine  in  iron  chains  the  boisterous  Hmbs  of  noisy 
Boreas,  and  the  sharp-pointed  nose  of  bitter-biting  Eurus.  Do 
thou,  sweet  Zephyrus,  rising  from  thy  fragrant  bed,  mount  the 
western  sky,  and  lead  on  those  delicious  gales,  the  charms  of 
which  call  forth  the  lovely  Flora  from  her  chamber,  perfumed 
with  pearly  dews,  when  on  the  ist  of  June,  her  birth-day,  the 
blooming  maid,  in  loose  attire,  gently  trips  it  over  the  verdant 
mead,  where  every  flower  rises  to  do  her  homage,  till  the  whole 
field  becomes  enamelled,  and  colours  contend  with  sweets  which 
shall  ravish  her  most. 

So  charming  may  she  now  appear  !  and  you  the  feathered 
choristers  of  nature,  whose  sweetest  notes  not  even  Handel  can 
excell,  tune  your  melodious  throats  to  celebrate  her  appearance. 
From  love  proceeds  your  music,  and  to  love  it  returns.  Awaken 
therefore  that  gentle  passion  in  every  swain :  for  lo  !  adorned 
with  all  the  charms  in  which  nature  can  array  her ;  bedecked  with 
beauty,  youth,  sprightliness,  innocence,  modesty,  and  tender- 
ness, breathing  sweetness  from  her  rosy  lips,  and  darting  bright- 
ness from  her  sparkling  eyes,  the  lovely  Sophia  comes  ! 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     345 

Reader,  perhaps  thou  hast  seen  the  statue  of  the  Venus 
de  Medicis.  Perhaps,  too,  thou  hast  seen  the  gallery  of  beau- 
ties at  Hampton  Court.  Thou  may'st  remember  each  bright 
Churchill  of  the  galaxy,  and  all  the  toasts  of  the  Kit-cat.  Or,  if 
their  reign  was  before  thy  times,  at  least  thou  hast  seen  their 
daughters,  the  no  less  dazzling  beauties  of  the  present  age ; 
whose  names,  should  we  here  insert,  we  apprehend  they  would 
fill  the  whole  volume. 

Now  if  thou  hast  seen  all  these,  be  not  afraid  of  the  rude 
answer  which  Lord  Rochester  once  gave  to  a  man  who  had  seen 
many  things.  No.  If  thou  hast  seen  all  these  without  know- 
ing what  beauty  is,  thou  hast  no  eyes ;  if  without  feeling  its 
power,  thou  hast  no  heart. 

Yet  is  it  possible,  my  friend,  that  thou  mayest  have  seen  all 
these  without  being  able  to  form  an  exact  idea  of  Sophia ;  for 
she  did  not  exactly  resemble  any  of  them.  She  was  most  like 
the  picture  of  Lady  Ranelagh :  and,  I  have  heard,  more  still  to 
the  famous  dutchess  of  Mazarine  ;  but  most  of  all  she  resembled 
one  whose  image  never  can  depart  from  my  breast,  and  whom, 
if  thou  dost  remember,  thou  hast  then,  my  friend,  an  adequate 
idea  of  Sophia. 

But  lest  this  should  not  have  been  thy  fortune,  we  will  en- 
deavour with  our  utmost  skill  to  describe  this  paragon,  though 
we  are  sensible  that  our  highest  abilities  are  very  inadequate  to 
the  task. 

Sophia,  then,  the  only  daughter  of  Mr  Western,  was  a  middle- 
sized  woman ;  but  rather  inclining  to  tall.  Her  shape  was  not 
only  exact,  but  extremely  deHcate :  and  the  nice  proportion  of 
her  arms  promised  the  truest  symmetry  in  her  limbs.  Her 
hair,  which  was  black,  was  so  luxuriant,  that  it  reached  her 
middle,  before  she  cut  it  to  comply  with  the  modern  fashion ; 
and  it  was  now  curled  so  gracefully  in  her  neck,  that  few  could 
believe  it  to  be  her  own.  If  envy  could  find  any  part  of  the  face 
which  demanded  less  commendation  than  the  rest,  it  might 
possibly  think  her  forehead  might  have  been  higher  without 
prejudice  to  her.  Her  eyebrows  were  full,  even,  and  arched 
beyond  the  power  of  art  to  imitate.  Her  black  eyes  had  a  lustre 
in  them,  which  all  her  softness  could  not  extinguish.     Her  nose 


346  HENRY  FIELDING 

was  exactly  regular,  and  her  mouth,  in  which  were  two  rows  of 
ivory,  exactly  answered  Sir  John  Suckhng's  description  in  those 
Hnes :  — 

Her  lips  were  red.  and  one  was  thin, 

Compar'd  to  that  was  next  her  chin. 
Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly. 

Her  cheeks  were  of  the  oval  kind ;  and  in  her  right  she  had  a 
dimple,  which  the  least  smile  discovered.  Her  chin  had  cer- 
tainly its  share  in  forming  the  beauty  of  her  face ;  but  it  was 
difficult  to  say  it  was  either  large  or  small,  though  perhaps  it 
was  rather  of  the  former  kind.  Her  complexion  had  rather  more 
of  the  Hly  than  of  the  rose ;  but  when  exercise  or  modesty  in- 
creased her  natural  colour,  no  vermiHon  could  equal  it.  Then 
one  might  indeed  cry  out  with  the  celebrated  Dr  Donne : 

Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 

Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought 
That  one  might  almost  say  her  body  thought. 

Her  neck  was  long  and  finely  turned :  and  here,  if  I  was  not 
afraid  of  offending  her  dehcacy,  I  might  justly  say,  the  highest 
beauties  of  the  famous  Venus  de  Medicis  were  outdone.  Here 
was  whiteness  which  no  liHes,  ivory,  nor  alabaster  could  match. 
The  finest  cambric  might  indeed  be  supposed  from  envy  to 
cover  that  bosom  which  was  much  whiter  than  itself.  —  It 
was  indeed, 

Nitor  sploidens  Pario  marmore  puriiis. 
A  gloss  shining  beyond  the  purest  brightness  of  Parian  marble. 

Such  was  the  outside  of  Sophia ;  nor  was  this  beautiful  frame 
disgraced  by  an  inhabitant  unworthy  of  it.  Her  mind  was  every 
way  equal  to  her  person ;  nay,  the  latter  borrowed  some  charms 
from  the  former ;  for  when  she  smiled,  the  sweetness  of  her 
temper  diffused  that  glory  over  her  countenance  which  no 
regularity  of  features  can  give.  But  as  there  are  no  perfections 
of  the  mind  which  do  not  discover  themselves  in  that  perfect 
intimacy  to  which  we  intend  to  introduce  our  reader  with  this 
charming  young  creature,  so  it  is  needless  to  mention  them  here  : 
nay,  it  is  a  kind  of  tacit  affront  to  our  reader's  understanding, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,  A   FOUNDLING     347 

and  may  also  rob  him  of  that  pleasure  which  he  will  receive  in 
forming  his  own  judgment  of  her  character. 

It  may,  however,  be  proper  to  say,  that  whatever  mental 
accomphshments  she  had  derived  from  nature,  they  were  some- 
what improved  and  cultivated  by  art :  for  she  had  been  educated 
under  the  care  of  an  aunt,  w^ho  was  a  lady  of  great  discretion, 
and  was  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  world,  ha\dng  Hved  in 
her  youth  about  the  court,  whence  she  had  retired  some  years 
since  into  the  country.  By  her  conversation  and  instructions, 
Sophia  was  perfectly  well  bred,  though  perhaps  she  wanted  a 
little  of  that  ease  in  her  behaviour  which  is  to  be  acquired  only 
by  habit,  and  living  within  what  is  called  the  polite  circle.  But 
this,  to  say  the  truth,  is  often  too  dearly  purchased  ;  and  though 
it  hath  charms  so  inexpressible,  that  the  French,  perhaps,  among 
other  qualities,  mean  to  express  this,  when  they  declare  they 
know  not  what  it  is ;  yet  its  absence  is  well  compensated  by 
innocence  ;  nor  can  good  sense  and  a  natural  gentility  ever  stand 
in  need  of  it. 

CHAPTER   III 

Wherein  the  History  goes   back  to  coiniEMOR.A.TE  a  Tripling 

Incident   th.at  il\ppened   SoiiE   Years  since  ;     but   which, 

Trifling  as  it  was,  h.ad  some  Future  Conseql'ences 

The  amiable  Sophia  was  now  in  her  eighteenth  year,  when 
she  is  introduced  into  this  history.  Her  father,  as  hath  been 
said,  was  fonder  of  her  than  of  any  other  human  creature.  To 
her,  therefore,  Tom  Jones  appHed,  in  order  to  engage  her  interest 
on  the  behalf  of  his  friend  the  gamekeeper. 

But  before  we  proceed  to  this  business,  a  short  recapitulation 
of  some  pre\'ious  matters  may  be  necessary. 

Though  the  different  tempers  of  Mr  AUworthy  and  of  Mr 
Western  did  not  admit  of  a  very  intimate  correspondence,  yet 
they  Lived  upon  what  is  called  a  decent  footing  together ;  by 
which  means  the  young  people  of  both  families  had  been  ac- 
quainted from  their  infancy ;  and  as  they  were  all  near  of  the 
same  age,  had  been  frequent  playmates  together. 

The  gaiety  of  Tom's  temper  suited  better  with  Sophia,  than 


348  HENRY  FIELDING 

the  grave  and  sober  disposition  of  Master  Blifil.  And  the  pref- 
erence which  she  gave  the  former  of  these,  would  often  appear 
so  plainly,  that  a  lad  of  a  more  passionate  turn  than  Master 
Blifil  was,  might  have  shown  some  displeasure  at  it. 

As  he  did  not,  however,  outwardly  express  any  such  disgust, 
it  would  be  an  ill  office  in  us  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  inmost  recesses 
of  his  mind,  as  some  scandalous  people  search  into  the  most 
secret  affairs  of  their  friends,  and  often  pry  into  their  closets  and 
cupboards,  only  to  discover  their  poverty  and  meanness  to  the 
world. 

However,  as  persons  who  suspect  they  have  given  others 
cause  of  offence,  are  apt  to  conclude  they  are  offended  ;  so  Sophia 
imputed  an  action  of  Master  Blifil  to  his  anger,  which  the  supe- 
rior sagacity  of  Thwackum  and  Square  discerned  to  have  arisen 
from  a  much  better  principle. 

Tom  Jones,  when  very  young,  had  presented  Sophia  with  a 
little  bird,  which  he  had  taken  from  the  nest,  had  nursed  up, 
and  taught  to  sing. 

Of  this  bird,  Sophia,  then  about  thirteen  years  old,  was  so 
extremely  fond,  that  her  chief  business  was  to  feed  and  tend  it, 
and  her  chief  pleasure  to  play  with  it.  By  these  means  little 
Tommy,  for  so  the  bird  was  called,  was  become  so  tame,  that  it 
would  feed  out  of  the  hand  of  its  mistress,  would  perch  upon 
the  finger,  and  lie  contented  in  her  bosom,  where  it  seemed  almost 
sensible  of  its  own  happiness ;  though  she  always  kept  a  small 
string  about  its  leg,  nor  would  ever  trust  it  with  the  liberty  of 
flying  away. 

One  day,  when  Mr  Allworthy  and  his  whole  family  dined  at 
Mr  Western's,  Master  Blifil,  being  in  the  garden  with  little 
Sophia,  and  observing  the  extreme  fondness  that  she  showed  for 
her  little  bird,  desired  her  to  trust  it  for  a  moment  in  his  hands. 
Sophia  presently  complied  with  the  young  gentleman's  request, 
and  after  some  previous  caution,  delivered  him  her  bird ;  of 
which  he  was  no  sooner  in  possession,  than  he  slipt  the  string 
from  its  leg  and  tossed  it  into  the  air. 

The  fooHsh  animal  no  sooner  perceived  itself  at  liberty,  than 
forgetting  all  the  favours  it  had  received  from  Sophia,  it  flew 
directly  from  her,  and  perched  on  a  bough  at  some  distance. 


THE   HISTORY  OF  TOM  pNES,   A   FOUNDLING     349 

Sophia,  seeing  her  bird  gone,  screamed  out  so  loud,  that 
Tom  Jones,  who  was  at  a  Httle  distance,  immediately  ran  to  her 
assistance. 

He  was  no  sooner  informed  of  what  had  happened,  than  he 
cursed  Blifil  for  a  pitiful  malicious  rascal ;  and  then  immediately 
stripping  off  his  coat  he  applied  himself  to  climbing  the  tree  to 
which  the  bird  escaped. 

Tom  had  almost  recovered  his  little  namesake,  when  the 
branch  on  which  it  was  perched,  and  that  hung  over  a  canal, 
broke,  and  the  poor  lad  plumped  over  head  and  ears  into  the 
w^ter. 

Sophia's  concern  now  changed  its  object.  And  as  she  appre- 
hended the  boy's  life  was  in  danger,  she  screamed  ten  times 
louder  than  before ;  and  indeed  Master  Bhfil  himself  now  sec- 
onded her  with  all  the  vociferation  in  his  power. 

The  company,  who  were  sitting  in  a  room  next  the  garden, 
were  instantly  alarmed,  and  came  all  forth ;  but  just  as  they 
reached  the  canal,  Tom  (for  the  water  was  luckily  pretty  shal- 
low in  that  part)  arrived  safely  on  shore. 

Thwackum  fell  violently  on  poor  Tom,  who  stood  dropping 
and  shivering  before  him,  when  Mr  Allworthy  desired  him  to 
have  patience;  and  turning  to  Master  Blifil,  said,  "Pray,  child, 
what  is  the  reason  of  all  this  disturbance  ?  " 

Master  Blifil  answered,  "Indeed,  uncle,  I  am  very  sorry  for 
what  I  have  done ;  I  have  been  unhappily  the  occasion  of  it  all. 
I  had  Miss  Sophia's  bird  in  my  hand,  and  thinking  the  poor 
creature  languished  for  liberty,  I  own  I  could  not  forbear  giving 
it  what  it  desired ;  for  I  always  thought  there  was  something 
very  cruel  in  confining  anything.  It  seemed  to  be  against  the 
law  of  nature,  by  which  everything  hath  a  right  to  hbcrty ;  nay, 
it  is  even  unchristian,  for  it  is  not  doing  what  we  would  be  done 
by ;  but  if  I  had  imagined  Miss  Sophia  would  have  been  so  much 
concerned  at  it,  I  am  sure  I  never  would  have  done  it ;  nay,  if 
I  had  known  what  would  have  happened  to  the  bird  itself :  for 
when  Master  Jones,  who  climbed  up  that  tree  after  it,  fell  into 
the  water,  the  bird  took  a  second  flight,  and  presently  a  nasty 
hawk  carried  it  away." 

Poor  Sophia,  who  now  first  heard  of  her  Httle  Tommy's  fate 


350  HENRY  FIELDING 

(for  her  concern  for  Jones  had  prevented  her  perceiving  it  when 
it  happened),  shed  a  shower  of  tears.  These  Mr  Allworthy 
endeavoured  to  assuage,  promising  her  a  much  finer  bird :  but 
she  declared  she  would  never  have  another.  Her  father  chid  her 
for  crying  so  for  a  foolish  bird  ;  but  could  not  help  telling  young 
BHfil,  if  he  was  a  son  of  his,  his  backside  should  be  well  fiead. 

Sophia  now  returned  to  her  chamber,  the  two  young  gentle- 
men were  sent  home,  and  the  rest  of  the  company  returned  to 
their  bottle ;  where  a  conversation  ensued  on  the  subject  of  the 
bird,  so  curious,  that  we  think  it  deserves  a  chapter  by  itself. 

CHAPTER  XIII 

A    Dreadful    Accident    which    befel    Sophia.    The    Gallant 

Behaviour  of  Jones,  and  the  more  Dreadful  Consequence 

OF  that  Behaviour  to  the  Young  Lady;  with  a  Short 

Digression  in  Favour  of  the  Female  Sex 

Mr  Western  grew  every  day  fonder  and  fonder  of  Sophia, 
insomuch  that  his  beloved  dogs  themselves  almost  gave  place 
to  her  in  his  affections ;  but  as  he  could  not  prevail  on  himself 
to  abandon  these,  he  contrived  very  cunningly  to  enjoy  their 
company,  together  with  that  of  his  daughter,  by  insisting  on  her 
riding  a  hunting  with  him. 

Sophia,  to  whom  her  father's  word  was  a  law,  readily  complied 
with  his  desires,  though  she  had  not  the  least  delight  in  a  sport, 
which  was  of  too  rough  and  masculine  a  nature  to  suit  with 
her  disposition.  She  had  however  another  motive,  beside  her 
obedience,  to  accompany  the  old  gentleman  in  the  chase ;  for 
by  her  presence  she  hoped  in  some  measure  to  restrain  his 
impetuosity,  and  to  prevent  him  from  so  frequently  exposing 
his  neck  to  the  utmost  hazard. 

The  strongest  objection  was  that  which  would  have  formerly 
been  an  inducement  to  her,  namely,  the  frequent  meeting  with 
young  Jones,  whom  she  had  determined  to  avoid  ;  but  as  the  end 
of  the  hunting  season  now  approached,  she  hoped,  by  a  short 
absence  with  her  aunt,  to  reason  herself  entirely  out  of  her  unfor- 
tunate passion ;  and  had  not  any  doubt  of  being  able  to  meet 
him  in  the  field  the  subsequent  season  without  the  least  danger. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     351 

On  the  second  day  of  her  hunting,  as  she  was  returning  from 
the  chase,  and  was  arrived  within  a  httle  distance  from  Mr  West- 
ern's house,  her  horse,  whose  mettlesome  spirit  required  a  better 
rider,  fell  suddenly  to  prancing  and  capering  in  such  a  manner 
that  she  was  in  the  most  imminent  peril  of  falling.  Tom  Jones, 
who  was  at  a  little  distance  behind,  saw  this,  and  immediately 
galloped  up  to  her  assistance.  As  soon  as  he  came  up,  he  leapt 
from  his  own  horse,  and  caught  hold  of  hers  by  the  bridle.  The 
unruly  beast  presently  reared  himself  an  end  on  his  hind  legs, 
and  threw  his  lovely  burthen  from  his  back,  and  Jones  caught 
her  in  his  arms. 

She  was  so  affected  with  the  fright,  that  she  was  not  imme- 
diately able  to  satisfy  Jones,  who  was  very  sollicitous  to  know 
whether  she  had  received  any  hurt.  She  soon  after,  however, 
recovered  her  spirits,  assured  him  she  was  safe,  and  thanked 
him  for  the  care  he  had  taken  of  her.  Jones  answered,  "If  I 
have  preserved  you,  madam,  I  am  sufficiently  repaid ;  for  I 
promise  you,  I  would  have  secured  you  from  the  least  harm  at 
the  expense  of  a  much  greater  misfortune  to  myself  than  I  have 
suffered  on  this  occasion." 

"What  misfortune?"  rephed  Sophia  eagerly;  "I  hope  you 
have  come  to  no  mischief?" 

"Be  not  concerned,  madam,"  answered  Jones.  "Heaven  be 
praised  you  have  escaped  so  well,  considering  the  danger  you 
was  in.  If  I  have  broke  my  arm,  I  consider  it  as  a  trifle,  in  com- 
parison of  what  I  feared  upon  your  account." 

Sophia  then  screamed  out,  "Broke  your  arm !  Heaven 
forbid." 

"I  am  afraid  I  have,  madam,"  says  Jones:  "but  I  beg  you 
will  suffer  me  first  to  take  care  of  you.  I  have  a  right  hand  yet 
at  your  service,  to  help  you  into  the  next  field,  whence  we  have 
but  a  very  little  walk  to  your  father's  house." 

Sophia  seeing  his  left  arm  dangling  by  his  side,  while  he  was 
using  the  other  to  lead  her,  no  longer  doubted  of  the  truth. 
She  now  grew  much  paler  than  her  fears  for  herself  had  made 
her  before.  All  her  Hmbs  were  seized  with  a  trembling,  insomuch 
that  Jones  could  scarce  support  her ;  and  as  her  thoughts  were 
in  no  less  agitation,  she  could  not  refrain  from  giving  Jones  a 


352  HENRY  FIELDING 

look  so  full  of  tenderness,  that  it  almost  argued  a  stronger  sen- 
sation in  her  mind,  than  even  gratitude  and  pity  united  can  raise 
in  the  gentlest  female  bosom,  without  the  assistance  of  a  third 
more  powerful  passion. 

Mr  Western,  who  was  advanced  at  some  distance  when  this 
accident  happened,  was  now  returned,  as  were  the  rest  of  the 
horsemen.  Sophia  immediately  acquainted  them  with  what 
had  befallen  Jones,  and  begged  them  to  take  care  of  him.  Upon 
which  Western,  who  had  been  much  alarmed  by  meeting  his 
daughter's  horse  without  its  rider,  and  was  now  overjoyed  to 
find  her  unhurt,  cried  out,  "I  am  glad  it  is  no  worse.  If  Tom  hath 
broken  his  arm,  we  will  get  a  joiner  to  mend  un  again." 

The  squire  alighted  from  his  horse,  and  proceeded  to  his 
house  on  foot,  with  his  daughter  and  Jones.  An  impartial  spec- 
tator, who  had  met  them  on  the  way,  would,  on  viewing  their 
several  countenances,  have  concluded  Sophia  alone  to  have 
been  the  object  of  compassion :  for  as  to  Jones,  he  exulted  in 
having  probably  saved  the  Hfe  of  the  young  lady,  at  the  price 
only  of  a  broken  bone ;  and  Mr  Western,  though  he  was  not 
unconcerned  at  the  accident  which  had  befallen  Jones,  was, 
however,  deHghted  in  a  much  higher  degree  with  the  fortunate 
escape  of  his  daughter. 

The  generosity  of  Sophia's  temper  construed  this  behaviour 
of  Jones  into  great  bravery ;  and  it  made  a  deep  impression  on 
her  heart :  for  certain  it  is,  that  there  is  no  one  quality  which 
so  generally  recommends  men  to  women  as  this ;  proceeding,  if 
we  believe  the  common  opinion,  from  that  natural  timidity  of 
the  sex,  which  is,  says  Mr  Osborne,  ''so  great,  that  a  woman  is 
the  most  cowardly  of  all  the  creatures  God  ever  made ; "  —  a 
sentiment  more  remarkable  for  its  bluntness  than  for  its  truth. 
Aristotle,  in  his  Politics,  doth  them,  I  believe,  more  justice, 
when  he  says,  "The  modesty  and  fortitude  of  men  differ  from 
those  virtues  in  women ;  for  the  fortitude  which  becomes  a 
woman,  would  be  cowardice  in  a  man ;  and  the  modesty  which 
becomes  a  man,  would  be  pertness  in  a  woman."  Nor  is  there, 
perhaps,  more  of  truth  in  the  opinion  of  those  who  derive  the 
partiality  which  women  are  inclined  to  show  to  the  brave,  from 
this  excess  of  their  fear.     Mr  Bayle  (I  think,  in  his  article  of 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     353 

Helen)  imputes  this,  and  with  greater  probability,  to  their  vio- 
lent love  of  glory ;  for  the  truth  of  which,  we  have  the  authority  of 
him  who  of  all  others  saw  farthest  into  human  nature,  and  who 
introduces  the  heroine  of  his  Odyssey,  the  great  pattern  of 
matrimonial  love  and  constancy,  assigning  the  glory  of  her  hus- 
band as  the  only  source  of  her  affection  towards  him.^ 

However  this  be,  certain  it  is  that  the  accident  operated  very 
strongly  on  Sophia ;  and,  indeed,  after  much  enquiry  into  the 
matter,  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  that,  at  this  very  time,  the 
charming  Sophia  made  no  less  impression  on  the  heart  of  Jones ; 
to  say  truth,  he  had  for  some  time  become  sensible  of  the  irre- 
sistible power  of  her  charms. 

BOOK   V.     CHAPTER  II 

In  which  Mr  Jones  receives  Many  Friendly  Visits  during  his 

Confinement;  with  Some  Fine  Touches  of  the  Passion 

OF  Love,  scarce  Visible  to  the  Naked  Eye 

Tom  Jones  had  many  visitors  during  his  confinement,  though 
some,  perhaps,  were  not  very  agreeable  to  him.  Mr  Allworthy 
saw  him  almost  every  day ;  but  though  he  pitied  Tom's  suffer- 
ings, and  greatly  approved  the  gallant  behaviour  which  had 
occasioned  them ;  yet  he  thought  this  was  a  favourable  oppor- 
tunity to  bring  him  to  a  sober  sense  of  his  indiscreet  conduct ; 
and  that  wholesome  advice  for  that  purpose  could  never  be 
applied  at  a  more  proper  season  than  at  the  present,  when  the 
mind  was  softened  by  pain  and  sickness,  and  alarmed  by  danger ; 
and  when  its  attention  was  unembarrassed  with  those  turbulent 
passions  which  engage  us  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure. 

At  all  seasons,  therefore,  when  the  good  man  was  alone  with 
the  youth,  especially  when  the  latter  was  totally  at  ease,  he  took 
occasion  to  remind  him  of  his  former  miscarriages,  but  in  the 
mildest  and  tenderest  manner,  and  only  in  order  to  introduce 
the  caution  which  he  prescribed  for  his  future  behaviour;  "on 
which  alone,"  he  assured  him,  "would  depend  his  own  felicity, 
and  the  kindness  which  he  might  yet  promise  himself  to  receive 

1  The  English  reader  will  not  find  this  in  the  poem ;  for  the  sentiment  is  entirely  left 
out  in  the  translation.     [Author's  note.] 


354  HENRY  FIELDING 

at  the  hands  of  his  father  by  adoption,  unless  he  should  here- 
after forfeit  his  good  opinion  :  for  as  to  what  had  past,"  he  said, 
"it  should  be  all  forgiven  and  forgotten.  He  therefore  advised 
him  to  make  a  good  use  of  this  accident,  that  so  in  the  end  it 
might  prove  a  visitation  for  his  own  good." 

Thwackum  was  likewise  pretty  assiduous  in  his  visits ;  and 
he  too  considered  a  sick-bed  to  be  a  convenient  scene  for  lec- 
tures. His  stile,  however,  was  more  severe  than  Mr  Allworthy's  : 
he  told  his  pupil,  "That  he  ought  to  look  on  his  broken  limb  as 
a  judgment  from  heaven  on  his  sins.  That  it  would  become  him 
to  be  daily  on  his  knees,  pouring  forth  thanksgivings  that  he  had 
broken  his  arm  only,  and  not  his  neck ;  which  latter,"  he  said, 
"was  very  probably  reserved  for  some  future  occasion,  and 
that,  perhaps,  not  very  remote.  For  his  part,"  he  said,  "he  had 
often  wondered  some  judgment  had  not  overtaken  him  before; 
but  it  might  be  perceived  by  this,  that  Divine  punishments, 
though  slow,  are  always  sure."  Hence  hkewise  he  advised  him, 
"to  foresee,  with  equal  certainty,  the  greater  evils  which  were 
yet  behind,  and  which  were  as  sure  as  this  of  overtaking  him  in 
his  state  of  reprobacy.  These  are,"  said  he,  "to  be  averted  only 
by  such  a  thorough  and  sincere  repentance  as  is  not  to  be  expected 
or  hoped  for  from  one  so  abandoned  in  his  youth,  and  whose 
mind,  I  am  afraid,  is  totally  corrupted.  It  is  my  duty,  however, 
to  exhort  you  to  this  repentance,  though  I  too  well  know  all  exhor- 
tations will  be  vain  and  fruitless.  But  liberavi  animam  meam. 
I  can  accuse  my  own  conscience  of  no  neglect ;  though  it  is  at 
the  same  time  with  the  utmost  concern  I  see  you  travelling  on  to 
certain  misery  in  this  world,  and  to  as  certain  damnation  in  the 
next." 

Square  talked  in  a  very  different  strain;  he  said,  "Such  acci- 
dents as  a  broken  bone  were  below  the  consideration  of  a  wise 
man.  That  it  was  abundantly  sufficient  to  reconcile  the  mind 
to  any  of  these  mischances,  to  reflect  that  they  are  Hable  to 
befal  the  wisest  of  mankind,  and  are  undoubtedly  for  the  good 
of  the  whole."  He  said,  "It  was  a  mere  abuse  of  words  to  call 
those  things  evils,  in  which  there  was  no  moral  unfitness :  that 
pain,  which  was  the  worst  consequence  of  such  accidents,  was  the 
most  contemptible  thing  in  the  world;"  with  more  of  the  like 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,  A  FOUNDLING     355 

sentences,  extracted  out  of  the  second  book  of  Tully's  Tusculan 
questions,  and  from  the  great  Lord  Shaftesbury.  In  pronounc- 
ing these  he  was  one  day  so  eager,  that  he  unfortunately  bit 
his  tongue ;  and  in  such  a  manner,  that  it  not  only  put  an  end  to 
his  discourse,  but  created  much  emotion  in  him,  and  caused  him 
to  mutter  an  oath  or  two :  but  what  was  worst  of  all,  this  acci- 
dent gave  Thwackum,  who  was  present,  and  who  held  all  such 
doctrine  to  be  heathenish  and  atheistical,  an  opportunity  to  clap 
a  judgment  on  his  back.  Now  this  was  done  with  so  malicious 
a  sneer,  that  it  totally  unhinged  (if  I  may  so  say)  the  temper  of 
the  philosopher,  which  the  bite  of  his  tongue  had  somewhat 
ruffled ;  and  as  he  was  disabled  from  venting  his  wrath  at  his 
lips,  he  had  possibly  found  a  more  violent  method  of  revenging 
himself,  had  not  the  surgeon,  who  was  then  luckily  in  the  room, 
contrary  to  his  own  interest,  interposed  and  preserved  the  peace. 

Mr  Bliiil  visited  his  friend  Jones  but  seldom,  and  never  alone. 
This  worthy  young  man,  however,  professed  much  regard  for 
him,  and  as  great  concern  at  his  misfortune ;  but  cautiously 
avoided  any  intimacy,  lest,  as  he  frequently  hinted,  it  might 
contaminate  the  sobriety  of  his  own  character :  for  which  pur- 
pose he  had  constantly  in  his  mouth  that  proverb  in  which  Solo- 
mon speaks  against  evil  communication.  Not  that  he  was  so 
bitter  as  Thwackum ;  for  he  always  expressed  some  hopes  of 
Tom's  reformation;  ''which,"  he  said,  ''the  unparalleled  good- 
ness shown  by  his  uncle  on  this  occasion,  must  certainly  effect 
in  one  not  absolutely  abandoned  :"  but  concluded,  "if  Mr  Jones 
ever  offends  hereafter,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  say  a  syllable  in  his 
favour." 

As  to  Squire  Western,  he  was  seldom  out  of  the  sick-room,  unless 
when  he  was  engaged  either  in  the  field  or  over  his  bottle.  Nay, 
he  would  sometimes  retire  hither  to  take  his  beer,  and  it  was  not 
without  difficulty  that  he  was  prevented  from  forcing  Jones  to 
take  his  beer  too :  for  no  quack  ever  held  his  nostrum  to  be  a 
more  general  panacea  than  he  did  this ;  which,  he  said,  had  more 
virtue  in  it  than  was  in  all  the  physic  in  an  apothecary's  shop. 
He  was,  however,  by  much  entreaty,  prevailed  on  to  forbear  the 
application  of  this  medicine ;  but  from  serenading  his  patient 
every  hunting  morning  with  the  horn  under  his  window,  it  was 


356  HENRY  FIELDING 

impossible  to  withhold  him ;  nor  did  he  ever  lay  aside  that 
hallow,  with  which  he  entered  into  all  companies,  when  he  visited 
Jones,  without  any  regard  to  the  sick  person's  being  at  that  time 
either  awake  or  asleep. 

This  boisterous  behaviour,  as  it  meant  no  harm,  so  happily 
it  effected  none,  and  was  abundantly  compensated  to  Jones,  as 
soon  as  he  was  able  to  sit  up,  by  the  company  of  Sophia,  whom 
the  squire  then  brought  to  visit  him ;  nor  was  it,  indeed,  long 
before  Jones  was  able  to  attend  her  to  the  harpsichord,  where 
she  would  kindly  condescend,  for  hours  together,  to  charm  him 
with  the  most  dehcious  music,  unless  when  the  squire  thought 
proper  to  interrupt  her,  by  insisting  on  Old  Sir  Simon,  or  some 
other  of  his  favourite  pieces. 

Notwithstanding  the  nicest  guard  which  Sophia  endeavoured 
to  set  on  her  behaviour,  she  could  not  avoid  letting  some  appear- 
ances now  and  then  slip  forth :  for  love  may  again  be  likened  to 
a  disease  in  this,  that  when  it  is  denied  a  vent  in  one  part,  it  will 
certainly  break  out  in  another.  What  her  lips,  therefore,  con- 
cealed, her  eyes,  her  blushes,  and  many  little  involuntary  actions, 
betrayed. 

One  day,  when  Sophia  was  playing  on  the  harpsichord,  and 
Jones  was  attending,  the  squire  came  into  the  room,  crying, 
"There,  Tom,  I  have  had  a  battle  for  thee  below-stairs  with  thick 
parson  Thwackum.  He  hath  been  a  telhng  Allworthy,  before 
my  face,  that  the  broken  bone  was  a  judgment  upon  thee.  D — n 
it,  says  I,  how  can  that  be  ?  Did  he  not  come  by  it  in  defence 
of  a  young  woman  ?  A  judgment  indeed  !  Pox,  if  he  never 
doth  anything  worse,  he  will  go  to  heaven  sooner  than  all  the 
parsons  in  the  country.  He  hath  more  reason  to  glory  in  it 
than  to  be  ashamed  of  it."  —  "Indeed,  sir,"  says  Jones,  "I  have 
no  reason  for  either ;  but  if  it  preserved  Miss  Western,  I  shall 
always  think  it  the  happiest  accident  of  my  life."  —  "And  to 
gu,"  said  the  squire,  "to  zet  Allworthy  against  thee  vor  it! 
D — n  un,  if  the  parson  had  unt  his  petticuoats  on,  I  should  have 
lent  un  o  flick ;  for  I  love  thee  dearly,  my  boy,  and  d — n  me  if 
there  is  anything  in  my  power  which  I  won't  do  for  thee.  Sha't 
take  thy  choice  of  all  the  horses  in  my  stable  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, except  only  the  ChevaUer  and  Miss  Slouch."     Jones  thanked 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     357 

him,  but  declined  accepting  the  offer.  "Nay,"  added  the  squire, 
''sha't  ha  the  sorrel  mare  that  Sophy  rode.  She  cost  me  fifty 
guineas,  and  comes  six  years  old  this  grass."  "If  she  had  cost 
me  a  thousand,"  cries  Jones  passionately,  "I  would  have  given 
her  to  the  dogs."  "Pooh  !  pooh  !"  answered  Western  ;  "what ! 
because  she  broke  thy  arm  ?  Shouldst  forget  and  forgive.  I 
thought  hadst  been  more  a  man  than  to  bear  malice  against  a 
dumb  creature."  —  Here  Sophia  interposed,  and  put  an  end  to 
the  conversation,  by  desiring  her  father's  leave  to  play  to  him  ; 
a  request  which  he  never  refused. 

The  countenance  of  Sophia  had  undergone  more  than  one 
change  during  the  foregoing  speeches ;  and  probably  she  imputed 
the  passionate  resentment  which  Jones  had  expressed  against 
the  mare,  to  a  different  motive  from  that  from  which  her  father 
had  derived  it.  Her  spirits  were  at  this  time  in  a  visible  flutter ; 
and  she  played  so  intolerably  ill,  that  had  not  Western  soon 
fallen  asleep,  he  must  have  remarked  it.  Jones,  however,  who 
was  sufficiently  awake,  and  was  not  without  an  ear  any  more 
than  without  eyes,  made  some  observations ;  which  being  joined 
to  all  which  the  reader  may  remember  to  have  passed  formerly, 
gave  him  pretty  strong  assurances,  when  he  came  to  reflect  on 
the  whole,  that  all  was  not  well  in  the  tender  bosom  of  Sophia ; 
an  opinion  which  many  young  gentlemen  will,  I  doubt  not,  ex- 
tremely wonder  at  his  not  having  been  well  confirmed  in  long 
ago.  To  confess  the  truth,  he  had  rather  too  much  diffidence 
in  himself,  and  was  not  forward  enough  in  seeing  the  advances 
of  a  young  lady ;  a  misfortune  which  can  be  cured  only  by  that 
early  town  education,  which  is  at  present  so  generally  in  fashion. 

When  these  thoughts  had  fully  taken  possession  of  Jones, 
they  occasioned  a  perturbation  in  his  mind,  which,  in  a  consti- 
tution less  pure  and  firm  than  his,  might  have  been,  at  such  a 
season,  attended  with  very  dangerous  consequences.  He  was 
truly  sensible  of  the  great  worth  of  Sophia.  He  extremely  Hked 
her  person,  no  less  admired  her  accomplishments,  and  tenderly 
loved  her  goodness.  In  reality,  as  he  had  never  once  enter- 
tained any  thought  of  possessing  her,  nor  had  ever  given  the  least 
voluntary  indulgence  to  his  inclinations,  he  had  a  much  stronger 
passion  for  her  than  he  himself  was  acquainted  with.     His  heart 


358  HENRY  FIELDING 

now  brought  forth  the  full  secret,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
assured  him  the  adorable  object  returned  his  affection. 

CHAPTER  IV 
A  Little  Chapter,  in  which  is  Contained  a  Little  Incident 

Among  other  visitants,  who  paid  their  compliments  to  the 
young  gentleman  in  his  confinement,  Mrs  Honour  was  one. 
The  reader,  perhaps,  when  he  reflects  on  some  expressions  which 
have  formerly  dropt  from  her,  may  conceive  that  she  herself 
had  a  very  particular  affection  for  Mr  Jones ;  but,  in  reality, 
it  was  no  such  thing.  Tom  was  a  handsome  young  fellow ; 
and  for  that  species  of  men  Mrs  Honour  had  some  regard ;  but 
this  was  perfectly  indiscriminate ;  for  having  been  crossed  in 
the  love  which  she  bore  a  certain  nobleman's  footman,  who  had 
basely  deserted  her  after  a  promise  of  marriage,  she  had  so 
securely  kept  together  the  broken  remains  of  her  heart,  that 
no  man  had  ever  since  been  able  to  possess  himself  of  any  single 
fragment.  She  viewed  all  handsome  men  with  that  equal 
regard  and  benevolence  which  a  sober  and  virtuous  mind  bears 
to  all  the  good.  She  might  indeed  be  called  a  lover  of  men,  as 
Socrates  was  a  lover  of  mankind,  preferring  one  to  another  for 
corporeal,  as  he  for  mental  qualifications ;  but  never  carrying 
this  preference  so  far  as  to  cause  any  perturbation  in  the  phil- 
osophical serenity  of  her  temper. 

The  day  after  Mr  Jones  had  that  conflict  with  himself  which 
we  have  seen  in  the  preceding  chapter,  Mrs  Honour  came  into 
his  room,  and  finding  him  alone,  began  in  the  following  manner : 
—  "La,  sir,  where  do  you  think  I  have  been  ?  I  warrants  you, 
you  would  not  guess  in  fifty  years ;  but  if  you  did  guess,  to  be 
sure  I  must  not  tell  you  neither."  —  "Nay,  if  it  be  something 
which  you  must  not  tell  me,"  said  Jones,  "I  shall  have  the 
curiosity  to  enquire,  and  I  know  you  will  not  be  so  barbarous  to 
refuse  me."  —  "I  don't  know,"  cries  she,  "why  I  should  refuse 
you  neither,  for  that  matter ;  for  to  be  sure  you  won't  mention 
it  any  more.  And  for  that  matter,  if  you  knew  where  I  have 
been,  unless  you  knew  what  I  have  been  about,  it  would  not 
signify  much.     Nay,  I  don't  see  why  it  should  be  kept  a  secret 


THE  HISTORY  OF   TOM  JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     359 

for  my  part ;  for  to  be  sure  she  is  the  best  lady  in  the  world." 
Upon  this,  Jones  began  to  beg  earnestly  to  be  let  into  this  secret, 
and  faithfully  promised  not  to  divulge  it.  She  then  proceeded 
thus :  —  "Why,  you  must  know,  sir,  my  young  lady  sent  me  to 
enquire  after  Molly  Seagrim,  and  to  see  whether  the  wench 
wanted  anything ;  to  be  sure,  I  did  not  care  to  go,  methinks ; 
but  servants  must  do  what  they  are  ordered.  —  So  my  lady 
bid  me  go  and  carry  her  some  linen,  and  other  things.  She 
is  too  good.  If  such  forward  sluts  were  sent  to  Bridewel,  it 
would  be  better  for  them.  I  told  my  lady,  says  I,  madam, 
your  la'ship  is  encouraging  idleness."  —  "And  was  my  Sophia 
so  good?"  says  Jones.  "My  Sophia!  I  assure  you,  marry 
come  up,"  answered  Honour.  "And  yet  if  you  knew  all  —  " 
"What  do  you  mean  by  these  words,"  replied  Jones,  "if  I  knew 
all?"  "I  mean  what  I  mean,"  says  Honour.  "Don't  you 
remember  putting  your  hands  in  my  lady's  muff  once  ?  I  vow 
I  could  almost  find  in  my  heart  to  tell,  if  I  was  certain  my  lady 
would  never  come  to  the  hearing  on't."  Jones  then  made  several 
solemn  protestations.  And  Honour  proceeded  —  "Then  to  be 
sure,  my  lady  gave  me  that  muff ;   and  afterwards,  upon  hearing 

what  you  had  done" "Then  you  told  her  what  I  had  done  ?  " 

interrupted  Jones.  "If  I  did,  sir,"  answered  she,  "you  need 
not  be  angry  with  me.  Many's  the  man  would  have  given  his 
head  to  have  had  my  lady  told,  if  they  had  known,  —  for,  to  be 
sure,  the  biggest  lord  in  the  land  might  be  proud  —  but,  I  pro- 
test, I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  tell  you."  Jones  fell  to 
entreaties,  and  soon  prevailed  on  her  to  go  on  thus.  "You  must 
know  then,  sir,  that  my  lady  had  given  this  muff  to  me ;  but  about 
a  day  or  two  after  I  had  told  her  the  story,  she  quarrels  with  her 
new  muff,  and  to  be  sure  it  is  the  prettiest  that  ever  was  seen. 
Honour,  says  she,  this  is  an  odious  muff ;  it  is  too  big  for  me,  I 
can't  wear  it :  till  I  can  get  another,  you  must  let  me  have  my  old 
one  again,  and  you  may  have  this  in  the  room  on't  —  for  she's 
a  good  lady,  and  scorns  to  give  a  thing  and  take  a  thing,  I 
promise  you  that.  So  to  be  sure  I  fetched  it  her  back  again, 
and,  I  believe,  she  hath  worn  it  upon  her  arm  almost  ever 
since,  and  I  warrants  hath  given  it  many  a  kiss  when  nobody 
hath  seen  her." 


36o  HENRY  FIELDING 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  Mr  Western  him- 
self, who  came  to  summon  Jones  to  the  harpsichord  ;  whither  the 
poor  young  fellow  went  all  pale  and  trembling.  This  Western 
observed,  but,  on  seeing  Mrs  Honour,  imputed  it  to  a  wrong 
cause ;  and  having  given  Jones  a  hearty  curse  between  jest  and 
earnest,  he  bid  him  beat  abroad,  and  not  poach  up  the  game  in 
his  warren. 

Sophia  looked  this  evening  with  more  than  usual  beauty,  and 
we  may  believe  it  was  no  small  addition  to  her  charms,  in  the  eye 
of  Mr  Jones,  that  she  now  happened  to  have  on  her  right  arm 
this  very  muff. 

She  was  playing  one  of  her  father's  favourite  tunes,  and  he 
was  leaning  on  her  chair,  when  the  muff  fell  over  her  fingers, 
and  put  her  out.  This  so  disconcerted  the  squire,  that  he 
snatched  the  muff  from  her,  and  with  a  hearty  curse  threw  it 
into  the  fire.  Sophia  instantly  started  up,  and  with  the  utmost 
eagerness  recovered  it  from  the  flames. 

Though  this  incident  will  probably  appear  of  little  consequence 
to  many  of  our  readers ;  yet,  trifling  as  it  was,  it  had  so  violent 
an  effect  on  poor  Jones,  that  we  thought  it  our  duty  to  relate  it. 
In  reality,  there  are  many  little  circumstances  too  often  omitted 
by  injudicious  historians,  from  which  events  of  the  utmost 
importance  arise.  The  world  may  indeed  be  considered  as  a  vast 
machine,  in  which  the  great  wheels  are  originally  set  in  motion 
by  those  which  are  very  minute,  and  almost  imperceptible  to 
any  but  the  strongest  eyes. 

Thus,  not  all  the  charms  of  the  incomparable  Sophia ;  not  all 
the  dazzling  brightness,  and  languishing  softness  of  her  eyes ; 
the  harmony  of  her  voice,  and  of  her  person;  not  all  her  wit, 
good-humour,  greatness  of  mind,  or  sweetness  of  disposition,  had 
been  able  so  absolutely  to  conquer  and  enslave  the  heart  of  poor 
Jones,  as  this  little  incident  of  the  muff. 

The  citadel  of  Jones  was  now  taken  by  surprize.  All  those 
considerations  of  honour  and  prudence  which  our  heroe  had 
lately  with  so  much  military  wisdom  placed  as  guards  over  the 
avenues  of  his  heart,  ran  away  from  their  posts,  and  the  god  of 
love  marched  in,  in  triumph. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     361 

BOOK  VI.     CHAPTER  II 

The  Character  of  Mrs  Western.    Her   Great  Learning  and 

Knowledge  of  the  World,  and  an  Instance  of  the  Deep 

Penetration  which  she  derived  from  those  Advantages 

The  reader  hath  seen  Mr  Western,  his  sister,  and  daughter, 
with  young  Jones,  and  the  parson,  going  together  to  Mr  Western's 
house,  where  the  greater  part  of  the  company  spent  the  evening 
with  much  joy  and  festivity.  Sophia  was  indeed  the  only  grave 
person ;  for  as  to  Jones,  though  love  had  now  gotten  entire  posses- 
sion of  his  heart,  yet  the  pleasing  reflection  on  Mr  Allworthy's 
recovery,  and  the  presence  of  his  mistress,  joined  to  some  tender 
looks  which  she  now  and  then  could  not  refrain  from  giving  him, 
so  elevated  our  heroe,  that  he  joined  the  mirth  of  the  other  three, 
who  were  perhaps  as  good-humoured  people  as  any  in  the  world. 

Sophia  retained  the  same  gravity  of  countenance  the  next 
morning  at  breakfast;  whence  she  retired  likewise  earlier  than 
usual,  leaving  her  father  and  aunt  together.  The  squire  took 
no  notice  of  this  change  in  his  daughter's  disposition.  To  say 
the  truth,  though  he  was  somewhat  of  a  politician,  and  had  been 
twice  a  candidate  in  the  country  interest  at  an  election,  he  was  a 
man  of  no  great  observation.  His  sister  was  a  lady  of  a  different 
turn.  She  had  lived  about  the  court,  and  had  seen  the  world. 
Hence  she  had  acquired  all  that  knowledge  which  the  said  world 
usually  communicates ;  and  was  a  perfect  mistress  of  manners, 
customs,  ceremonies,  and  fashions.  Nor  did  her  erudition  stop 
here.  She  had  considerably  improved  her  mind  by  study; 
she  had  not  only  read  all  the  modern  plays,  operas,  oratorios, 
poems,  and  romances  —  in  all  which  she  was  a  critic ;  but  had 
gone  through  Rapin's  History  of  England,  Eachard's  Roman 
History,  and  many  French  Memoires  pour  servir  a  VHistoire: 
to  these  she  had  added  most  of  the  political  pamphlets  and  jour- 
nals pubUshed  within  the  last  twenty  years.  From  which  she 
had  attained  a  very  competent  skill  in  politics,  and  could  dis- 
course very  learnedly  on  the  affairs  of  Europe.  She  was,  more- 
over, excellently  well  skilled  in  the  doctrine  of  amour,  and  knew 
better  than  anybody  who  and  who  were  together ;  a  knowledge 
which  she  the  more  easily  attained,  as  her  pursuit  of  it  was  never 


362  HENRY  FIELDING 

diverted  by  any  affairs  of  her  own;  for  either  she  had  no 
incUnations,  or  they  had  never  been  solicited ;  which  last  is 
indeed  very  probable ;  for  her  masculine  person,  which  was  near 
six  foot  high,  added  to  her  manner  and  learning,  possibly  prevented 
the  other  sex  from  regarding  her,  notwithstanding  her  petticoats, 
in  the  light  of  a  woman.  However,  as  she  had  considered  the 
matter  scientifically,  she  perfectly  well  knew,  though  she  had 
never  practised  them,  all  the  arts  which  fine  ladies  use  when 
they  desire  to  give  encouragement,  or  to  conceal  Hking,  with  all 
the  long  appendage  of  smiles,  ogles,  glances,  &c.,  as  they  are  at 
present  practised  in  the  beau-monde.  To  sum  the  whole,  no 
species  of  disguise  or  affectation  had  escaped  her  notice ;  but  as 
to  the  plain  simple  workings  of  honest  nature,  as  she  had  never 
seen  any  such,  she  could  know  but  Uttle  of  them. 

By  means  of  this  wonderful  sagacity,  Mrs  Western  had  now, 
as  she  thought,  made  a  discovery  of  something  in  the  mind  of 
Sophia.  The  first  hint  of  this  she  took  from  the  behaviour  of  the 
young  lady  in  the  field  of  battle;  and  the  suspicion  which  she 
then  conceived,  was  greatly  corroborated  by  some  observations 
which  she  had  made  that  evening  and  the  next  morning.  How- 
ever, being  greatly  cautious  to  avoid  being  found  in  a  mistake, 
she  carried  the  secret  a  whole  fortnight  in  her  bosom,  giving 
only  some  oblique  hints,  by  simpering,  winks,  nods,  and  now  and 
then  dropping  an  obscure  word,  which  indeed  sufficiently  alarmed 
Sophia,  but  did  not  at  all  affect  her  brother. 

Being  at  length,  however,  thoroughly  satisfied  of  the  truth  of 
her  observation,  she  took  an  opportunity,  one  morning,  when 
she  was  alone  with  her  brother,  to  interrupt  one  of  his  whistles 
in  the  following  manner :  — 

"Pray,  brother,  have  you  not  observed  something  very  ex- 
traordinary in  my  niece  lately?"  —  ''No,  not  I,"  answered 
Western;  *'is  anything  the  matter  with  the  girl?"  —  "I  think 
there  is,"  replied  she;  "and  something  of  much  consequence 
too."  —  "Why,  she  doth  not  complain  of  anything,"  cries 
Western;  "and  she  hath  had  the  small-pox."  —  "Brother," 
returned  she,  "girls  are  liable  to  other  distempers  besides  the 
small-pox,  and  sometimes  possibly  to  much  worse."  Here 
Western  interrupted  her  with  much  earnestness,  and  begged  her, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     363 

if  anything  ailed  his  daughter,  to  acquaint  him  immediately; 
adding,"  she  knew  he  loved  her  more  than  his  own  soul,  and  that 
he  would  send  to  the  world's  end  for  the  best  physician  to  her." 
"Nay,  nay,"  answered  she,  smiling,  "the  distemper  is  not  so 
terrible ;  but  I  believe,  brother,  you  are  convinced  I  know  the 
world,  and  I  promise  you  I  was  never  more  deceived  in  my  life, 
if  my  niece  be  not  most  desperately  in  love."  —  "How  !  in  love  ! " 
cries  Western,  in  a  passion ;  "in  love,  without  acquainting  me  ! 
I'll  disinherit  her ;  I'll  turn  her  out  of  doors,  stark  naked,  with- 
out a  farthing.  Is  all  my  kindness  vor  'ur,  and  vondness  o'ur 
come  to  this,  to  fall  in  love  without  asking  me  leave?"  —  "But 
you  will  not,"  answered  Mrs  Western,  "turn  this  daughter 
whom  you  love  better  than  your  own  soul,  out  of  doors,  before 
you  know  whether  you  shall  approve  her  choice.  Suppose  she 
should  have  fixed  on  the  very  person  whom  you  yourself  would 
wish,  I  hope  you  would  not  be  angry  then?"  —  "No,  no,"  cries 
Western,  "that  would  make  a  difference.  If  she  marries  the 
man  I  would  ha'  her,  she  may  love  whom  she  pleases,  I  shan't 
trouble  my  head  about  that."  "That  is  spoken,"  answered  the 
sister,  "like  a  sensible  man;  but  I  beheve  the  very  person  she 
hath  chosen  would  be  the  very  person  you  would  choose  for  her- 
I  will  disclaim  all  knowledge  of  the  world,  if  it  is  not  so ;  and  I 
believe,  brother,  you  will  allow  I  have  some."  —  "Why,  lookee, 
sister,"  said  Western,  "I  do  believe  you  have  as  much  as  any 
woman ;  and  to  be  sure  those  are  women's  matters.  You  know 
I  don't  love  to  hear  you  talk  about  politics ;  they  belong  to  us, 
and  petticoats  should  not  meddle  :  but  come,  who  is  the  man  ?  " 
—  "Marry  !"  said  she,  "you  may  find  him  out  yourself  if  you 
please.  You,  who  are  so  great  a  politician,  can  be  at  no  great 
loss.  The  judgment  which  can  penetrate  into  the  cabinets  of 
princes,  and  discover  the  secret  springs  which  move  the  great 
state  wheels  in  all  the  poUtical  machines  of  Europe,  must  surely, 
with  very  httle  difficulty,  find  out  what  passes  in  the  rude  unin- 
fomied  mind  of  a  girl."  —  "Sister,"  cries  the  squire,  "I  have 
often  warn'd  you  not  to  talk  the  court  gibberish  to  me.  I  tell 
you,  I  don't  understand  the  Hugo  :  but  I  can  read  a  journal,  or 
the  London  Evening  Post.  Perhaps,  indeed,  there  may  be  now 
and  tan  a  verse  which  I  can't  make  much  of,  because  half  the 


364  HENRY  FIELDING 

letters  are  left  out ;  yet  I  know  very  well  what  is  meant  by  that, 
and  that  our  affairs  don't  go  so  well  as  they  should  do,  because  of 
bribery  and  corruption."  —  "I  pity  your  country  ignorance  from 
my  heart,"  cries  the  lady.  —  "Do  you?"  answered  Western; 
"  and  I  pity  your  town  learning ;  I  had  rather  be  anything  than  a 
courtier,  and  a  Presbyterian,  and  a  Hanoverian  too,  as  some 
people,  I  believe,  are."  —  "If  you  mean  me,"  answered  she, 
"you  know  I  am  a  woman,  brother ;  and  it  signifies  nothing  what 
I  am.  Besides  — ^"  —  "I  do  know  you  are  a  woman,"  cries  the 
squire,  "and  it's  well  for  thee  that  art  one ;  if  hadst  been  a  man, 
I  promise  thee  I  had  lent  thee  a  flick  long  ago."  —  "Ay,  there," 
said  she,  "in  that  flick  Hes  all  your  fancied  superiority.  Your 
bodies,  and  not  your  brains,  are  stronger  than  ours.  BeHeve 
me,  it  is  well  for  you  that  you  are  able  to  beat  us ;  or,  such  is 
the  superiority  of  our  understanding,  we'should  make  all  of  you 
what  the  brave,  and  wise,  and  witty,  and  polite  are  already  — ■ 
our  slaves."  —  "I  am  glad  I  know  your  mind,"  answered  the 
squire.  "But  we'll  talk  more  of  this  matter  another  time.  At 
present,  do  tell  me  what  man  is  it  you  mean  about  my  daughter  ?  " 
—  "Hold  a  moment,"  said  she,  "while  I  digest  that  sovereign 
contempt  I  have  for  your  sex ;   or  else  I  ought  to  be  angry  too 

with  you.     There I  have  made  a  shift  to  gulp  it  down. 

And  now,  good  politic  sir,  what  think  you  of  Mr  Blifil  ?  Did 
she  not  faint  away  on  seeing  him  lie  breathless  on  the  ground  ? 
Did  she  not,  after  he  was  recovered,  turn  pale  again  the  moment 
we  came  up  to  that  part  of  the  field  where  he  stood  ?  And  pray 
what  else  should  be  the  occasion  of  all  her  melancholy  that  night 
at  supper,  the  next  morning,  and  indeed  ever  since?"  —  "'Fore 
George  !"  cries  the  squire,  "now  you  mind  me  on't,  I  remember 
it  all.  It  is  certainly  so,  and  I  am  glad  on't  with  all  my  heart. 
I  knew  Sophy  was  a  good  girl,  and  would  not  fall  in  love  to  make 
me  angry.  I  was  never  more  rejoiced  in  my  life ;  for  nothing  can 
lie  so  handy  together  as  our  two  estates.  I  had  this  matter  in 
my  head  some  time  ago :  for  certainly  the  two  estates  are  in  a 
manner  joined  together  in  matrimony  already,  and  it  would  be  a 
thousand  pities  to  part  them.  It  is  true,  indeed,  there  be  larger 
estates  in  the  kingdom,  but  not  in  this  county,  and  I  had  rather 
bate  something,  than  marry  my  daughter  among  strangers  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     365 

foreigners.     Besides,  most  o'  zuch  great  estates  be  in  the  hands 
of  lords,  and  I  heate  the  very  name  of  themmun.     Well  but, 
sister,  what  would  you  advise  me  to  do ;    for  I  tell  you  women 
know  these  matters  better  than  we  do?"  —  "Oh,  your  humble 
servant,  sir,"  answered  the  lady:    "we  are  obliged  to  you  for 
allowing  us  a  capacity  in  anything.     Since  you  are  pleased,  then, 
most  politic  sir,  to  ask  my  advice,  I  think  you  may  propose  the 
match  to  Allworthy  yourself.     There  is  no  indecorum  in  the 
proposal's  coming  from  the  parent  of  either  side.     King  Alcinous, 
in  Mr  Pope's  Odyssey,  offers  his  daughter  to  Ulysses.     I  need 
not  caution  so  politic  a  person  not  to  say  that  your  daughter  is 
in  love ;  that  would  indeed  be  against  all  rules."  —  "Well,"  said 
the  squire,  "1  will  propose  it;    but  I  shall  certainly  lend  un  a 
flick,  if  he  should  refuse  me."  "Fear  not,"  cries  Mrs  Western; 
"the  match  is  too  advantageous  to  be  refused."     "I  don't  know 
that,"  answered  the  squire:    "Allworthy  is  a  queer  b — ch,  and 
money  hath  no  effect  o'un."     "Brother,"  said  the  lady,  "your 
politics  astonish  me.     Arc  you  really  to  be  imposed  on  by  pro- 
fessions ?     Do  you  think  Mr  Allworthy  hath  more  contempt  for 
money  than  other  men  because  he  professes  more  ?     Such  credu- 
lity would  better  become  one  of  us  weak  women,  than  that  wise 
sex  which  heaven  hath  formed  for  politicians.     Indeed,  brother, 
you  would  make  a  fine  plenipo  to  negotiate  with  the  French. 
They  would  soon  persuade  you,  that  they  take  towns  out  of  mere 
defensive  principles."     "Sister,"  answered  the  squire,  with  much 
scorn,  "  let  your  friends  at  court  answer  for  the  towns  taken; 
as  you  are  a  woman,  I  shall  lay  no  blame  upon  you  ;  for  I  suppose 
they  are  wiser  than  to  trust  women  with  secrets."     He  accom- 
panied this  with  so  sarcastical  a  laugh,  that  Mrs  Western  could 
bear  no  longer.     She  had  been  all  this  time  fretted  in  a  tender 
part  (for  she  was  indeed  very  deeply  skilled  in  these  matters, 
and  very  violent  in  them),  and  therefore,  burst  forth  in  a  rage, 
declared  her  brother  to  be  both  a  clown  and  a  blockhead,  and 
that  she  would  stay  no  longer  in  his  house. 

The  squire,  though  perhaps  he  had  never  read  Machiavel,  was, 
however,  in  many  points,  a  perfect  politican.  He  strongly  held 
all  those  wise  tenets,  which  are  so  well  inculcated  in  that  Politico- 
Peripatetic  school  of  Exchange-alley.     He  knew  the  just  value 


366  HEXRY  FIELDING 

and  only  use  of  money,  viz.,  to  lay  it  up.  He  was  likewise  well 
skilled  in  the  exact  value  of  reversions,  expectations,  &c.,  and  had 
often  considered  the  amount  of  his  sister's  fortune,  and  the  chance 
which  he  or  his  posterity  had  of  inheriting  it.  This  he  was  in- 
finitely too  wise  to  sacrifice  to  a  trifling  resentment.  When  he 
found,  therefore,  he  had  carried  matters  too  far,  he  began  to 
think  of  reconciling  them ;  which  was  no  very  difficult  task,  as 
the  lady  had  great  affection  for  her  brother,  and  still  greater  for 
her  niece  ;  and  though  too  susceptible  of  an  affront  offered  to  her 
skill  in  pohtics,  on  which  she  much  valued  herself,  was  a  woman 
of  a  ver\'  extraordinary  good  and  sweet  disposition. 

Having  firs't,  therefore,  laid  violent  hands  on  the  horses,  for 
whose  escape  from  the  stable  no  place  but  the  window  was  left 
open,  he  next  applied  himself  to  his  sister ;  softened  and  soothed 
her,  by  unsaying  all  he  had  said,  and  by  assertions  directly 
contrary  to  those  which  had  incensed  her.  Lastly,  he  summoned 
the  eloquence  of  Sophia  to  his  assistance,  who,  besides  a  most 
graceful  and  winning  address,  had  the  advantage  of  being  heard 
with  great  favour  and  partiahty  by  her  aunt. 

The  result  of  the  whole  was  a  kind  smile  from  ]\Irs  Western, 
who  said,  "Brother,  you  are  absolutely  a  perfect  Croat;  but  as 
those  have  their  use  in  the  army  of  the  empress  queen,  so  you 
likewise  have  some  good  in  you.  I  will  therefore  once  more  sign 
a  treaty  of  peace  with  you,  and  see  that  you  do  not  infringe  it  on 
your  side ;  at  least,  as  you  are  so  excellent  a  pohtican,  I  may 
expect  you  will  keep  your  leagues,  like  the  French,  till  your  inter- 
est calls  upon  you  to  break  them." 

CIL\PTER  m 
Containing  Two  Defla.nces  to  the  Critics 

The  squire  having  settled  matters  with  his  sister,  as  we  have  seen 
in  the  last  chapter,  was  so  greatly  impatient  to  communicate  the 
proposal  to  Alhvorthy,  that  Mrs  Western  had  the  utmost  dif- 
ficulty to  prevent  him  from  visiting  that  gentleman  in  his  sickness, 
for  this  purpose. 

Mr  All  worthy  had  been  engaged  to  dine  with  Mr  Western  at 
the  time  when  he  was  taken  ill.     He  was  therefore  no  sooner 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,  A   FOUNDLING     367 

discharged  out  of  the  custody  of  physic,  but  he  thought  (as  was 
usual  with  him  on  all  occasions,  both  the  highest  and  the  lowest) 
of  fulfilling  his  engagement. 

In  the  interval  between  the  time  of  the  dialogue  in  the  last 
chapter,  and  this  day  of  public  entertainment,  Sophia  had,  from 
certain  obscure  hints  thrown  out  by  her  aunt,  collected  some 
apprehension  that  the  sagacious  lady  suspected  her  passion  for 
Jones.  She  now  resolved  to  take  this  opportunity  of  wiping 
out  all  such  suspicion,  and  for  that  purpose  to  put  an  entire 
constraint  on  her  behaviour. 

First,  she  endeavoured  to  conceal  a  throbbing  melancholy 
heart  with  the  utmost  sprighthness  in  her  countenance,  and  the 
highest  gaiety  in  her  manner.  Secondly,  she  addressed  her  whole 
discourse  to  Mr  Blilil,  and  took  not  the  least  notice  of  poor  Jones 
the  whole  day. 

The  squire  was  so  delighted  with  this  conduct  of  his  daughter, 
that  he  scarce  eat  any  dinner,  and  spent  almost  his  whole  time  in 
watching  opportunities  of  conveying  signs  of  his  approbation  by 
winks  and  nods  to  his  sister ;  who  was  not  at  first  altogether  so 
pleased  with  what  she  saw  as  was  her  brother. 

In  short,  Sophia  so  greatly  overacted  her  part,  that  her  aunt 
was  at  first  staggered,  and  began  to  suspect  some  affectation  in 
her  niece ;  but  as  she  was  herself  a  woman  of  great  art,  so  she 
soon  attributed  this  to  extreme  art  in  Sophia.  She  remembered 
the  many  hints  she  had  given  her  niece  concerning  her  being  in 
love,  and  imagined  the  young  lady  had  taken  this  way  to  rally 
her  out  of  her  opinion,  by  an  overacted  civility ;  a  notion  that 
was  greatly  corroborated  by  the  excessive  gaiety  with  which  the 
whole  was  accompanied.  We  cannot  here  avoid  remarking,  that 
this  conjecture  would  have  been  better  founded  had  Sophia 
lived  ten  years  in  the  air  of  Grosvenor  Square,  where  young 
ladies  do  learn  a  wonderful  knack  of  rallying  and  playing  with 
that  passion,  which  is  a  mighty  serious  thing  in  woods  and  groves 
an  hundred  miles  distant  from  London. 

To  say  the  truth,  in  discovering  the  deceit  of  others,  it  matters 
much  that  our  own  art  be  wound  up,  if  I  may  use  the  expression, 
in  the  same  key  with  theirs :  for  very  artful  men  sometimes 
miscarry  by  fancying  others  wiser,  or,  in  other  words,  greater 


368  HENRY  FIELDING 

knaves,  than  they  really  are.  As  this  observation  is  pretty  deep, 
I  will  illustrate  it  by  the  following  short  story.  Three  country- 
men were  pursuing  a  Wiltshire  thief  through  Brentford.  The 
simplest  of  them  seeing  "The  Wiltshire  House,"  written  under  a 
sign,  advised  his  companions  to  enter  it,  for  there  most  probably 
they  would  find  their  countryman.  The  second,  who  was  wiser, 
laughed  at  this  simpUcity ;  but  the  third,  who  was  wiser  still, 
answered,  "Let  us  go  in,  however,  for  he  may  think  we  should 
not  suspect  him  of  going  amongst  his  own  countrymen."  They 
accordingly  went  in  and  searched  the  house,  and  by  that  means 
missed  overtaking  the  thief,  who  was  at  that  time  but  a  Httle 
way  before  them  ;  and  who,  as  they  all  knew,  but  had  never  once 
reflected,  could  not  read. 

The  reader  will  pardon  a  digression  in  which  so  invaluable  a 
secret  is  communicated,  since  every  gamester  will  agree  how 
necessary  it  is  to  know  exactly  the  play  of  another,  in  order  to 
countermine  him.  This  will,  moreover,  afford  a  reason  why  the 
wiser  man,  as  is  often  seen,  is  the  bubble  of  the  weaker,  and  why 
many  simple  and  innocent  characters  are  so  generally  misunder- 
stood and  misrepresented ;  but  what  is  most  material,  this  will 
account  for  the  deceit  which  Sophia  put  on  her  politic  aunt. 

Dinner  being  ended,  and  the  company  retired  into  the  garden, 
Mr  Western,  who  was  thoroughly  convinced  of  the  certainty  of 
what  his  sister  had  told  him,  took  Mr  Allworthy  aside,  and 
very  bluntly  proposed  a  match  between  Sophia  and  young 
Mr  Blifil. 

Mr  Allworthy  was  not  one  of  those  men  whose  hearts  flutter 
at  any  unexpected  and  sudden  tidings  of  worldly  profit.  His 
mind  was,  indeed,  tempered  with  that  philosophy  which  becomes 
a  man  and  a  Christian.  He  affected  no  absolute  superiority  to 
all  pleasure  and  pain,  to  all  joy  and  grief ;  but  was  not  at  the 
same  time  to  be  discomposed  and  ruffled  by  every  accidental 
blast,  by  every  smile  or  frown  of  fortune.  He  received,  therefore, 
Mr  Western's  proposal  without  any  visible  emotion,  or  without 
any  alteration  of  countenance.  He  said. the  alhance  was  such  as 
he  sincerely  wished ;  then  launched  forth  into  a  very  just  en- 
comium on  the  young  lady's  merit ;  acknowledged  the  offer  to 
be  advantageous  in  point  of  fortune;   and  after  thanking  Mr 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,  A  FOUNDLING     369 

Western  for  the  good  opinion  he  had  professed  of  his  nephew, 
concluded,  that  if  the  young  people  liked  each  other,  he  should 
be  very  desirous  to  complete  the  affair. 

Western  was  a  little  disappointed  at  Mr  Allworthy's  answer, 
which  was  not  so  warm  as  he  expected.  He  treated  the  doubt 
whether  the  young  people  might  Hke  one  another  with  great 
contempt,  saying,  "That  parents  were  the  best  judges  of  proper 
matches  for  their  children :  that  for  his  part  he  should  insist  on 
the  most  resigned  obedience  from  his  daughter  :  and  if  any  young 
fellow  could  refuse  such  a  bed-fellow,  he  was  his  humble  servant, 
and  hoped  there  was  no  harm  done." 

Allworthy  endeavoured  to  soften  this  resentment  by  many 
eulogiums  on  Sophia,  declaring  he  had  no  doubt  but  that  Mr 
Blifil  would  very  gladly  receive  the  offer ;  but  all  was  ineffec- 
tual ;  he  could  obtain  no  other  answer  from  the  squire  but  —  'T 
say  no  more  —  I  humbly  hope  there's  no  harm  done  —  that's  all." 
Which  words  he  repeated  at  least  a  hundred  times  before  they 
parted. 

Allworthy  was  too  well  acquainted  with  his  neighbour  to  be 
offended  at  this  behaviour ;  and  though  he  was  so  averse  to  the 
rigour  which  some  parents  exercise  on  their  children  in  the  article 
of  marriage,  that  he  had  resolved  never  to  force  his  nephew's 
inclinations,  he  was  nevertheless  much  pleased  with  the  prospect 
of  this  union ;  for  the  whole  country  resounded  the  praises  of 
Sophia,  and  he  had  himself  greatly  admired  the  uncommon 
endowments  of  both  her  mind  and  person.  To  which  I  beheve 
we  may  add,  the  consideration  of  her  vast  fortune,  which,  though 
he  was  too  sober  to  be  intoxicated  with  it,  he  was  too  sensible  to 
despise. 

And  here,  in  defiance  of  all  the  barking  critics  in  the  world,  I 
must  and  will  introduce  a  digression  concerning  true  wisdom,  of 
which  Mr  Allworthy  was  in  reahty  as  great  a  pattern  as  he  was  of 
goodness. 

True  wisdom  then,  notwithstanding  all  which  Mr  Hogarth's 
poor  poet  may  have  writ  against  riches,  and  in  spite  of  all  which 
any  rich  well-fed  divine  may  have  preached  against  pleasure, 
consists  not  in  the  contempt  of  either  of  these.  A  man  may 
have  as  much  wisdom  in  the  possession  of  an  affluent  fortune, 


370  HENRY  FIELDING 

as  any  beggar  in  the  streets  ;  or  may  enjoy  a  handsome  wife  or  a 
hearty  friend,  and  still  remain  as  wise  as  any  sour  popish  recluse, 
who  buries  all  his  social  faculties,  and  starves  his  belly  while  he 
well  lashes  his  back. 

To  say  truth,  the  wisest  man  is  the  HkeHest  to  possess  all 
worldly  blessings  in  an  eminent  degree ;  for  as  that  moderation 
which  wisdom  prescribes  is  the  surest  way  to  useful  wealth,  so 
can  it  alone  quahfy  us  to  taste  many  pleasures.  The  wise 
man  gratifies  every  appetite  and  every  passion,  while  the  fool 
sacrifices  all  the  rest  to  pall  and  satiate  one. 

It  may  be  objected,  that  very  wise  men  have  been  notoriously 
avaricious.  I  answer,  Not  wise  in  that  instance.  It  may  like- 
wise be  said.  That  the  wisest  men  have  been  in  their  youth 
immoderately  fond  of  pleasure.  I  answer.  They  were  not 
wise  then. 

Wisdom,  in  short,  whose  lessons  have  been  represented  as  so 
hard  to  learn  by  those  who  never  were  at  her  school,  only  teaches 
us  to  extend  a  simple  maxim  universally  known  and  followed 
even  in  the  lowest  life,  a  little  farther  than  that  Hfe  carries  it. 
And  this  is,  not  to  buy  at  too  dear  a  price. 

Now,  whoever  takes  this  maxim  abroad  with  him  into  the  grand 
market  of  the  world,  and  constantly  applies  it  to  honours,  to 
riches,  to  pleasures,  and  to  every  other  commodity  which  that 
market  affords,  is,  I  will  venture  to  affirm,  a  wise  man,  and  must 
be  so  acknowledged  in  the  worldly  sense  of  the  word ;  for  he 
makes  the  best  of  bargains,  since  in  reality  he  purchases  every- 
thing at  the  price  only  of  a  Httle  trouble,  and  carries  home  all 
the  good  things  I  have  mentioned,  while  he  keeps  his  health,  his 
innocence,  and  his  reputation,  the  common  prices  which  are  paid 
for  them  by  others,  entire  and  to  himself. 

From  this  moderation,  likewise,  he  learns  two  other  lessons, 
which  complete  his  character.  First,  never  to  be  intoxicated 
when  he  hath  made  the  best  bargain,  nor  dejected  when  the 
market  is  empty,  or  when  its  commodities  are  too  dear  for  his 
purchase. 

But  I  must  remember  on  what  subject  I  am  writing,  and  not 
trespass  too  far  on  the  patience  of  a  good-natured  critic.  Here, 
therefore,  I  put  an  end  to  the  chapter. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     371 

CHAPTER  IV 
Containing  Sundry  Curious  Matters 

As  soon  as  Mr  Allworthy  returned  home,  he  took  Mr  Blifil 
apart,  and  after  some  preface,  communicated  to  him  the  proposal 
which  had  been  made  by  Mr  Western,  and  at  the  same  time  in- 
formed him  how  agreeable  this  match  would  be  to  himself. 

The  charms  of  Sophia  had  not  made  the  least  impression  on 
Bhfil ;  not  that  his  heart  was  pre-engaged  ;  neither  was  he  totally 
insensible  of  beauty,  or  had  any  aversion  to  women ;  but  his 
appetites  were  by  nature  so  moderate,  that  he  was  able,  by 
philosophy,  or  by  study,  or  by  some  other  method,  easily  to 
subdue  them :  and  as  to  that  passion  which  we  have  treated  of  in 
the  first  chapter  of  this  book,  he  had  not  the  least  tincture  of  it 
in  his  whole  composition. 

But  though  he  was  so  entirely  free  from  that  mixed  passion,  of 
which  we  there  treated,  and  of  which  the  virtues  and  beauty  of 
Sophia  formed  so  notable  an  object;  yet  was  he  altogether  as 
well  furnished  with  some  other  passions,  that  promised  themselves 
very  full  gratification  in  the  young  lady's  fortune.  Such  were 
avarice  and  ambition,  which  divided  the  dominion  of  his  mind 
between  them.  He  had  more  than  once  considered  the  possession 
of  this  fortune  as  a  very  desirable  thing,  and  had  entertained 
some  distant  views  concerning  it ;  but  his  own  youth,  and  that 
of  the  young  lady,  and  indeed  principally  a  reflection  that  Mr 
Western  might  marry  again,  and  have  more  children,  had  re- 
•  strained  him  from  too  hasty  or  eager  a  pursuit. 

This  last  and  most  material  objection  was  now  in  great  meas- 
ure removed,  as  the  proposal  came  from  Mr  Western  himself. 
BHlil,  therefore,  after  a  very  short  hesitation,  answered  Mr  All- 
worthy,  that  matrimony  was  a  subject  on  which  he  had  not  yet 
thought;  but  that  he' was  so  sensible  of  his  friendly  and  fatherly 
care,  that  he  should  in  all  things  submit  himself  to  his  pleasure. 

Allworthy  was  naturally  a  man  of  spirit,  and  his  present  gravity 
arose  from  true  wisdom  and  philosophy,  not  from  any  original 
phlegm  in  his  disposition ;  for  he  had  possessed  much  fire  in  his 
youth,  and  had  married  a  beautiful  woman  for  love.  He  was 
not  therefore  greatly  pleased  with  this  cold  answer  of  his  nephew  ; 


372  HENRY  FIELDING 

nor  could  he  help  launching  forth  into  the  praises  of  Sophia,  and 
expressing  some  wonder  that  the  heart  of  a  young  man  could  be 
impregnable  to  the  force  of  such  charms,  unless  it  was  guarded  by 
some  prior  affection. 

BUfil  assured  him  he  had  no  such  guard ;  and  then  proceeded 
to  discourse  so  wisely  and  religiously  on  love  and  marriage,  that 
he  would  have  stopt  the  mouth  of  a  parent  much  less  devoutly 
incHned  than  was  his  uncle.  In  the  end,  the  good  man  was 
satisfied  that  his  nephew,  far  from  having  any  objections  to 
Sophia,  had  that  esteem  for  her,  which  in  sober  and  virtuous 
minds  is  the  sure  foundation  of  friendship  and  love.  And  as  he 
doubted  not  but  the  lover  would,  in  a  Uttle  time,  become  alto- 
gether as  agreeable  to  his  mistress,  he  foresaw  great  happiness 
arising  to  all  parties  by  so  proper  and  desirable  an  union.  With 
Mr  Blifil's  consent  therefore  he  wrote  the  next  morning  to  Mr 
Western,  acquainting  him  that  his  nephew  had  very  thankfully 
and  gladly  received  the  proposal,  and  would  be  ready  to  wait  on 
the  young  lady,  whenever  she  should  be  pleased  to  accept  his  visit. 

Western  was  much  pleased  with  this  letter,  and  immediately 
returned  an  answer ;  in  which,  without  having  mentioned  a 
word  to  his  daughter,  he  appointed  that  very  afternoon  for 
opening  the  scene  of  courtship. 

As  soon  as  he  had  dispatched  this  messenger,  he  went  in  quest 
of  his  sister,  whom  he  found  reading  and  expounding  the  Gazette 
to  parson  Supple.  To  this  exposition  he  was  obliged  to  attend 
near  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  though  with  great  violence  to  his 
natural  impetuosity,  before  he  was  suffered  to  speak.  At  length, 
however,  he  found  an  opportunity  of  acquainting  the  lady,  that 
he  had  business  of  great  consequence  to  impart  to  her ;  to  which 
she  answered,  "Brother,  I  am  entirely  at  your  service.  Things 
look  so  well  in  the  north,  that  I  was  never  in  a  better  humour." 

The  parson  then  withdrawing.  Western  acquainted  her  with 
all  which  had  passed,  and  desired  her  to  communicate  the  affair 
to  Sophia,  which  she  readily  and  chearfully  undertook ;  though 
perhaps  her  brother  was  a  little  obliged  to  that  agreeable  northern 
aspect  which  had  so  delighted  her,  that  he  heard  no  comment  on 
his  proceedings  ;  for  they  were  certainly  somewhat  too  hasty  and 
violent. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     373 

CHAPTER   V 

In  which  is  related  what  passed  between  Sophia  and  her  Aunt 

Sophia  was  in  her  chamber,  reading,  when  her  aunt  came  in. 
The  moment  she  saw  Mrs  Western,  she  shut  the  book  with  so 
much  eagerness,  that  the  good  lady  could  not  forbear  asking  her, 
What  book  that  was  which  she  seemed  so  much  afraid  of  showing  ? 
"Upon  my  word,  madam,"  answered  Sophia,  ''it  is  a  book  which 
I  am  neither  ashamed  nor  afraid  to  own  I  have  read.  It  is  the 
production  of  a  young  lady  of  fashion,  whose  good  understanding, 
I  think,  doth  honour  to  her  sex,  and  whose  good  heart  is  an  honour 
to  human  nature."  Mrs  Western  then  took  up  the  book,  and 
immediately  after  threw  it  down,  saying  —  "Yes,  the  author  is  of 
a  very  good  family  ;  but  she  is  not  much  among  people  one  knows. 
I  have  never  read  it ;  for  the  best  judges  say,  there  is  not  much 
in  it."  —  "I  dare  not,  madam,  set  up  my  own  opinion,"  says 
Sophia,  "against  the  best  judges,  but  there  appears  to  me  a 
great  deal  of  human  nature  in  it ;  and  in  many  parts  so  much 
true  tenderness  and  delicacy,  that  it  hath  cost  me  many  a  tear." 
—  "Ay,  and  do  you  love  to  cry  then?"  says  the  aunt.  "I  love 
a  tender  sensation,"  answered  the  niece,  "and  would  pay  the 
price  of  a  tear  for  it  at  any  time."  —  "Well,  but  show  me,"  said 
the  aunt,  "what  was  you  reading  when  I  came  in;  there  was 
something  very  tender  in  that,  I  believe,  and  very  loving  too. 
You  blush,  my  dear  Sophia.  Ah,  child,  you  should  read  books 
which  would  teach  you  a  little  hypocrisy,  which  would  instruct 
you  how  to  hide  your  thoughts  a  little  better."  —  "I  hope, 
madam,"  answered  Sophia,  "I  have  no  thoughts  which  I  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  discovering."  —  "Ashamed!  no,"  cries  the  aunt, 
"I  don't  think  you  have  any  thoughts  which  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of ;  and  yet,  child,  you  blushed  just  now  when  I  men- 
tioned the  word  loving.  Dear  Sophy,  be  assured  you  have  not 
one  thought  which  I  am  not  well  acquainted  with  ;  as  well,  child, 
as  the  French  are  with  our  motions,  long  before  we  put  them  in 
execution.  Did  you  think,  child,  because  you  have  been  able 
to  impose  upon  your  father,  that  you  could  impose  upon  me  ? 
Do  you  imagine  I  did  not  know  the  reason  of  your  overacting 
all  that  friendship  for  Mr  Blifil  yesterday  ?     I  have  seen  a  Httle 


374  HENRY  FIELDING 

too  much  of  the  world,  to  be  so  deceived.  Nay,  nay,  do  not 
blush  again.  I  tell  you  it  is  a  passion  you  need  not  be  ashamed 
of.  It  is  a  passion  I  myself  approve,  and  have  already  brought 
your  father  into  the  approbation  of  it.  Indeed,  I  solely  consider 
your  inclination;  for  I  would  always  have  that  gratified,  if 
possible,  though  one  may  sacrifice  higher  prospects.  Come, 
I  have  news  which  will  dehght  your  very  soul.  Make  me  your 
confident  and  I  will  undertake  you  shall  be  happy  to  the  very 
extent  of  your  wishes."  "La,  madam,"  says  Sophia,  looking 
more  foolishly  than  ever  she  did  in  her  life,  "I  know  not  what  to 
say  —  why,  madam,  should  you  suspect?"  —  "Nay,  no  dis- 
honesty," returned  Mrs  Western.  "Consider,  you  are  speaking 
to  one  of  your  own  sex,  to  an  aunt,  and  I  hope  you  are  convinced 
you  speak  to  a  friend.  Consider,  you  are  only  revealing  to  me 
what  I  know  already,  and  what  I  plainly  saw  yesterday,  through 
that  most  artful  of  all  disguises,  which  you  had  put  on,  and  which 
must  have  deceived  any  one  whb  had  not  perfectly  known  the 
world.  Lastly,  consider  it  is  a  passion  which  I  highly  approve." 
''La,  madam,"  says  Sophia,  "you  come  upon  one  so  unawares, 
and  on  a  sudden.  To  be  sure,  madam,  I  am  not  blind  —  and 
certainly,  if  it  be  a  fault  to  see  all  human  perfections  assembled 
together  —  but  is  it  possible  my  father  and  you,  madam,  can  see 
with  my  eyes?"  "I  tell  you,"  answered  the  aunt,  "we  do  en- 
tirely approve ;  and  this  very  afternoon  your  father  hath  ap- 
pointed for  you  to  receive  your  lover."  "My  father,  this  after- 
noon !"  cries  Sophia,  with  the  blood  starting  from  her  face.  — ■ 
"Yes,  child,"  said  the  aunt,  "this  afternoon.  You  know  the 
impetuosity  of  my  brother's  temper.  I  acquainted  him  with  the 
passion  which  I  first  discovered  in  you  that  evening  when  you 
fainted  away  in  the  field.  I  saw  it  in  your  fainting.  I  saw  it 
immediately  upon  your  recovery.  I  saw  it  that  evening  at  sup- 
per, and  the  next  morning  at  breakfast  (you  know,  child,  I  have 
seen  the  world) .  Well,  I  no  sooner  acquainted  my  brother,  but  he 
immediately  wanted  to  propose  it  to  Allworthy.  He  proposed  it 
yesterday,  Allworthy  consented  (as  to  be  sure  he  must  with  joy), 
and  this  afternoon,  I  tell  you,  you  are  to  put  on  all  your  best  airs." 
"This  afternoon  !"  cries  Sophia.  "Dear  aunt,  you  frighten  me 
out  of  my  senses."      "O,  my  dear,"  said  the  aunt,  "you  will  soon 


THE  HISTORY    OF  TOM  JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     375 

come  to  yourself  again  ;  for  he  is  a  charming  young  fellow,  that's 
the  truth  on't."  "Nay,  I  will  own,"  says  Sophia,  "I  know  none 
with  such  perfections.  So  brave,  and  yet  so  gentle  ;  so  witty,  yet  so 
inoffensive  ;  so  humane,  so  civil,  so  genteel,  so  handsome  !  What 
signifies  his  being  base  born,  when  compared  with  such  qualifica- 
tions as  these?"  "Base  born?  What  do  you  mean?"  said 
the  aunt,  "Mr  Blifil  base  born  !"  Sophia  turned  instantly  pale 
at  this  name,  and  faintly  repeated  it.  Upon  which  the  aunt 
cried,  "Mr  Bhfil  —  ay,  Mr  Blifil,  of  whom  else  have  we  been 
talking?"  "Good  heavens,"  answered  Sophia,  ready  to  sink, 
"of  Mr  Jones,  I  thought;  I  am  sure  I  know  no  other  who  de- 
serves — "  "I  protest,"  cries  the  aunt,  "you  frighten  me  in  your 
turn.  Is  it  Mr  Jones,  and  not  Mr  Blifil,  who  is  the  object  of  your 
affection?"  "Mr  Bhfil!"  repeated  Sophia.  "Sure  it  is  im- 
possible you  can  be  in  earnest ;  if  you  are,  I  am  the  most  miser- 
able woman  alive."  Mrs  Western  now  stood  a  few  moments 
silent,  while  sparks  of  fiery  rage  flashed  from  her  eyes.  At  length, 
collecting  all  her  force  of  voice,  she  thundered  forth  in  the  follow- 
ing articulate  sounds  : 

"And  is  it  possible  you  can  think  of  disgracing  your  family  by 
allying  yourself  to  a  bastard?  Can  the  blood  of  the  Westerns 
submit  to  such  contamination  ?  If  you  have  not  sense  sufficient 
to  restrain  such  monstrous  inclinations,  I  thought  the  pride  of 
our  family  would  have  prevented  you  from  giving  the  least 
encouragement  to  so  base  an  affection ;  much  less  did  I  imagine 
you  would  ever  have  had  the  assurance  to  own  it  to  my  face." 

"Madam,"  answ^ered  Sophia,  trembling,  "what  I  have  said 
you  have  extorted  from  me.  I  do  not  remember  to  have  ever 
mentioned  the  name  of  Mr  Jones  with  approbation  to  any  one 
before ;  nor  should  I  now  had  I  not  conceived  he  had  your  appro- 
bation. Whatever  were  my  thoughts  of  that  poor,  unhappy 
young  man,  I  intended  to  have  carried  them  with  me  to  my  grave 
—  to  that  grave  where  only  now,  I  find,  I  am  to  seek  repose." 
Here  she  sunk  down  in  her  chair,  drowned  in  her  tears,  and,  in 
all  the  moving  silence  of  unutterable  grief,  presented  a  spectacle 
which  must  have  affected  almost  the  hardest  heart. 

All  this  tender  sorrow,  however,  raised  no  compassion  in  her 
aunt.     On  the  contrary,  she  now  fell  into  the  most  violent  rage. 


376  HENRY  FIELDING 

—  "And  I  would  rather,"  she  cried,  in  a  most  vehement  voice, 
"follow  you  to  your  grave,  than  I  would  see  you  disgrace  yourself 
and  your  family  by  such  a  match.  O  Heavens  !  could  I  have 
ever  suspected  that  I  should  live  to  hear  a  niece  of  mine  declare 
a  passion  for  such  a  fellow  ?  You  are  the  first  —  yes,  Miss 
Western,  you  are  the  first  of  your  name  who  ever  entertained  so 
grovelHng  a  thought.  A  family  so  noted  for  the  prudence  of  its 
women"  —  here  she  ran  on  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour,  till,  having 
exhausted  her  breath  rather  than  her  rage,  she  concluded  with 
threatening  to  go  immediately  and  acquaint  her  brother. 

Sophia  then  threw  herself  at  her  feet,  and  laying  hold  of  her 
hands,  begged  her  with  tears  to  conceal  what  she  had  drawn  from 
her;  urging  the  violence  of  her  father's  temper,  and  protesting 
that  no  inclinations  of  hers  should  ever  prevail  with  her  to  do 
anything  which  might  offend  him. 

Mrs  Western  stood  a  moment  looking  at  her,  and  then,  having 
recollected  herself,  said,  "That  on  one  consideration  only  she 
would  keep  the  secret  from  her  brother  ;  and  this  was,  that  Sophia 
should  promise  to  entertain  Mr  Bhfil  that  very  afternoon  as  her 
lover,  and  to  regard  him  as  the  person  who  was  to  be  her 
husband." 

Poor  Sophia  was  too  much  in  her  aunt's  power  to  deny  her 
anything  positively ;  she  was  obliged  to  promise  that  she  would 
see  Mr  Blifil,  and  be  as  civil  to  him  as  possible ;  but  begged  her 
aunt  that  the  match  might  not  be  hurried  on.  She  said,  "Mr 
Blifil  was  by  no  means  agreeable  to  her,  and  she  hoped  her 
father  would  be  prevailed  on  not  to  make  her  the  most  wretched 
of  women." 

Mrs  Western  assured  her,  "That  the  match  was  entirely 
agreed  upon,  and  that  nothing  could  or  should  prevent  it.  I 
must  own,"  said  she,  "I  looked  on  it  as  on  a  matter  of  indiffer- 
ence ;  nay,  perhaps,  had  some  scruples  about  it  before,  which 
were  actually  got  over  by  my  thinking  it  highly  agreeable  to 
your  own  inclinations ;  but  now  I  regard  it  as  the  most  eligible 
thing  in  the  world  :  nor  shall  there  be,  if  I  can  prevent  it,  a 
moment  of  time  lost  on  the  occasion." 

Sophia  replied,  "Delay  at  least,  madam,  I  may  expect  from 
both  your  goodness  and  my  father's.     Surely  you  will  give  me 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,  A  FOUNDLING     377 

time  to  endeavour  to  get  the  better  of  so  strong  a  disinclination 
as  I  have  at  present  to  this  person." 

The  aunt  answered,  "She  knew  too  much  of  the  world  to  be 
so  deceived  ;  that  as  she  was  sensible  another  man  had  her  affec- 
tions, she  should  persuade  Mr  Western  to  hasten  the  match  as 
much  as  possible.  It  would  be  bad  poHtics,  indeed,"  added  she, 
"to  protract  a  siege  when  the  enemy's  army  is  at  hand,  and  in 
danger  of  reheving  it.  No,  no,  Sophy,"  said  she,  "as  I  am  con- 
vinced you  have  a  violent  passion  which  you  can  never  satisfy 
with  honour,  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  put  your  honour  out  of  the  care 
of  your  family :  for  when  you  are  married  those  matters  will 
belong  only  to  the  consideration  of  your  husband.  I  hope, 
child,  you  will  always  have  prudence  enough  to  act  as  becomes 
you  ;  but  if  you  should  not,  marriage  hath  saved  many  a  woman 
from  ruin." 

Sophia  well  understood  what  her  aunt  meant ;  but  did  not 
think  proper  to  make  her  an  answer.  However,  she  took  a 
resolution  to  see  Mr  Blifil,  and  to  behave  to  him  as  civilly  as  she 
could,  for  on  that  condition  only  she  obtained  a  promise  from  her 
aunt  to  keep  secret  the  liking  which  her  ill  fortune,  rather  than 
any  scheme  of  Mrs  Western,  had  unhappily  drawn  from  her. 

CHAPTER   VII 

A  Picture  of  Forivl\l  Courtship  in  Miniature,  as   it  always 

ought  to  be  drawn,  and  a  scene   of  a  tenderer  kind 

Painted  at  full  Length 

It  was  well  remarked  by  one  (and  perhaps  by  more) ,  that  mis- 
fortunes do  not  come  single.  This  wise  maxim  was  now  verified 
by  Sophia,  who  was  not  only  disappointed  of  seeing  the  man  she 
loved,  but  had  the  vexation  of  being  obliged  to  dress  herself  out, 
in  order  to  receive  a  visit  from  the  man  she  hated. 

That  afternoon  Mr  Western,  for  the  first  time,  acquainted  his 
daughter  with  his  intention  ;  telling  her,  he  knew  very  well  that 
she  had  heard  it  before  from  her  aunt.  Sophia  looked  very 
grave  upon  this,  nor  could  she  prevent  a  few  pearls  from  stealing 
into  her  eyes.  "Come,  come,"  says  Western,  "none  of  your 
maidenish  airs  ;  I  know  all;  I  assure  you  sister  hath  told  me  all." 


378  HENRY  FIELDING 

"  Is  it  possible,"  says  Sophia,  "  that  my  aunt  can  have  betrayed 
me  already?"  —  ''Ay,  ay,"  says  Western;  "betrayed  you! 
ay.  Why,  you  betrayed  yourself  yesterday  at  dinner.  You 
showed  your  fancy  very  plainly,  I  think.  But  you  young  girls 
never  know  what  you  would  be  at.  So  you  cry  because  I  am 
going  to  marry  you  to  the  man  you  are  in  love  with  !  Your 
mother,  I  remember,  whimpered  and  whined  just  in  the  same 
manner ;  but  it  was  all  over  within  twenty-four  hours  after  we 
were  married  :  Mr  Blifil  is  a  brisk  young  man,  and  will  soon  put 
an  end  to  your  squeamishness.  Come,  chear  up,  chear  up ;  I 
expect  un  every  minute." 

Sophia  was  now  convinced  that  her  aunt  had  behaved  hon- 
ourably to  her :  and  she  determined  to  go  through  that  dis- 
agreeable afternoon  with  as  much  resolution  as  possible,  and 
without  giving  the  least  suspicion  in  the  world  to  her  father. 

Mr  Blifil  soon  arrived  ;  and  Mr  Western  soon  after  withdraw- 
ing, left  the  young  couple  together. 

Here  a  long  silence  of  near  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ensued ;  for 
the  gentleman  who  was  to  begin  the  conversation  had  all  the 
unbecoming  modesty  which  consists  in  bashfulness.  He  often 
attempted  to  speak,  and  as  often  suppressed  his  words  just  at  the 
very  point  of  utterance.  At  last  out  they  broke  in  a  torrent  of 
far-fetched  and  high-strained  compliments,  which  were  answered 
on  her  side  by  downcast  looks,  half  bows,  and  civil  monosyllables. 
Blifil,  from  his  inexperience  in  the  ways  of  women,  and  from  his 
conceit  of  himself,  took  this  behaviour  for  a  modest  assent  to  his 
courtship  ;  and  when,  to  shorten  a  scene  which  she  could  no  longer 
support,  Sophia  rose  up  and  left  the  room,  he  imputed  that,  too, 
merely  to  bashfulness,  and  comforted  himself  that  he  should 
soon  have  enough  of  her  company. 

He  was  indeed  perfectly  well  satisfied  with  his  prospect  of 
success  ;  for  as  to  that  entire  and  absolute  possession  of  the  heart 
of  his  mistress  which  romantic  lovers  require,  the  very  idea  of  it 
never  entered  his  head.  Her  fortune  and  her  person  were  the 
sole  objects  of  his  wishes,  of  which  he  made  no  doubt  soon  to 
obtain  the  absokite  property ;  as  Mr  Western's  mind  was  so 
earnestly  bent  on  the  match ;  and  as  he  well  knew  the  strict 
obedience  which  Sophia  was  always  ready  to  pay  to  her  father's 


THE   HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     379 

will,  and  the  greater  still  which  her  father  would  exact,  if  there 
was  occasion.  This  authority,  therefore,  together  with  the 
charms  which  he  fancied  in  his  own  person  and  conversation, 
could  not  fail,  he  thought,  of  succeeding  with  a  young  lady,  whose 
inclinations  were,  he  doubted  not,  entirely  disengaged. 

Of  Jones  he  certainly  had  not  even  the  least  jealousy ;  and  I 
have  often  thought  it  wonderful  that  he  had  not.  Perhaps  he 
imagined  the  character  which  Jones  bore  all  over  the  country 
(how  justly,  let  the  reader  determine),  of  being  one  of  the  wildest 
fellows  in  England,  might  render  him  odious  to  a  lady  of  the  most 
exemplary  modesty.  Perhaps  his  suspicions  might  be  laid 
asleep  by  the  behaviour  of  Sophia,  and  of  Jones  himself,  when 
they  were  all  in  company  together.  Lastly,  and  indeed  prin- 
cipally, he  was  well  assured  there  was  not  another  self  in  the  case. 
He  fancied  that  he  knew  Jones  to  the  bottom,  and  had  in  reality 
a  great  contempt  for  his  understanding,  for  not  being  more 
attached  to  his  own  interest.  He  had  no  apprehension  that 
Jones  was  in  love  with  Sophia ;  and  as  for  any  lucrative  motives, 
he  imagined  they  would  sway  very  Uttle  with  so  silly  a  fellow. 
Blifil,  moreover,  thought  the  affair  of  Molly  Seagrim  still  went 
on,  and  indeed  believed  it  would  end  in  marriage  ;  for  Jones  really 
loved  him  from  his  childhood,  and  had  kept  no  secret  from  him, 
till  his  behaviour  on  the  sickness  of  Mr  Allworthy  had  entirely 
alienated  his  heart ;  and  it  was  by  means  of  the  quarrel  which 
had  ensued  on  this  occasion,  and  which  was  not  yet  recon- 
ciled, that  Mr  BHfil  knew  nothing  of  the  alteration  which  had 
happened  in  the  affection  which  Jones  had  formerly  borne 
towards  Molly. 

From  these  reasons,  therefore,  Mr  Blifil  saw  no  bar  to  his 
success  with  Sophia.  He  concluded  her  behaviour  was  like  that 
of  all  other  young  ladies  on  a  first  visit  from  a  lover,  and  it  had 
indeed  entirely  answered  his  expectations. 

Mr  Western  took  care  to  way-lay  the  lover  at  his  exit  from  his 
mistress.  He  found  him  so  elevated  with  his  success,  so  enam- 
oured with  his  daughter,  and  so  satisfied  with  her  reception  of 
him,  that  the  old  gentleman  began  to  caper  and  dance  about  his 
hall,  and  by  many  other  antic  actions  to  express  the  extravagance 
of  his  joy ;    for  he  had  not  the  least  command  over  any  of  his 


380  HENRY  FIELDING 

passions ;  and  that  which  had  at  any  time  the  ascendant  in  his 
mind  hurried  him  to  the  wildest  excesses. 

As  soon  as  Blifil  was  departed,  which  was  not  till  after  many 
hearty  kisses  and  embraces  bestowed  on  him  by  Western,  the 
good  squire  went  instantly  in  quest  of  his  daughter,  whom  he  no 
sooner  found  than  he  poured  forth  the  most  extravagant  rap- 
tures, bidding  her  chuse  what  clothes  and  jewels  she  pleased ; 
and  declaring  that  he  had  no  other  use  for  fortune  but  to  make 
her  happy.  He  then  caressed  her  again  and  again  with  the  ut- 
most profusion  of  fondness,  called  her  by  the  most  endearing 
names,  and  protested  she  was  his  only  joy  on  earth. 

Sophia  perceiving  her  father  in  this  fit  of  affection,  which  she 
did  not  absolutely  know  the  reason  of  (for  fits  of  fondness  were 
not  unusual  to  him,  though  this  was  rather  more  violent  than 
ordinary),  thought  she  should  never  have  a  better  opportunity  of 
disclosing  herself  than  at  present,  as  far  at  least  as  regarded  Mr 
Bhfil ;  and  she  too  well  foresaw  the  necessity  which  she  should 
soon  be  under  of  coming  to  a  full  explanation.  After  having 
thanked  the  squire,  therefore,  for  all  his  professions  of  kindness, 
she  added,  with  a  look  full  of  inexpressible  softness,  "And  is  it 
possible  my  papa  can  be  so  good  to  place  all  his  joy  in  his  Sophy's 
happiness?"  which  Western  having  confirmed  by  a  great  oath, 
and  a  kiss ;  she  then  laid  hold  of  his  hand,  and,  falling  on  her 
knees,  after  many  warm  and  passionate  declarations  of  affection 
and  duty,  she  begged  him  "not  to  make  her  the  most  miserable 
creature  on  earth  by  forcing  her  to  marry  a  man  whom  she 
detested.  This  I  entreat  of  you,  dear  sir,"  said  she,  "for  your 
sake,  as  well  as  my  own,  since  you  are  so  very  kind  to  tell  me 
your  happiness  depends  on  mine." — ^"How!  what!"  says 
Western,  staring  wildly.  "Oh  !  sir,"  continued  she,  "not  only 
your  poor  Sophy's  happiness ;  her  very  life,  her  being,  depends 
upon  your  granting  her  request.  I  cannot  live  with  Mr  Blifil. 
To  force  me  into  this  marriage  would  be  killing  me."  —  "You 
can't  live  with  Mr  Blifil?"  says  Western.  "No,  upon  my  soul 
I  can't,"  answered  Sophia.  "Then  die  and  be  d— d,"  cries  he, 
spurning  her  from  him.  "Oh  !  sir,"  cries  Sophia,  catching  hold 
of  the  skirt  of  his  coat,  "  take  pity  on  me,  I  beseech  you.  Don't 
look  and  say  such  cruel Can  you  be  unmoved  while  you  see 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     381 

your  Sophy  in  this  dreadful  condition  ?  Can  the  best  of  fathers 
break  my  heart  ?  Will  he  kill  me  by  the  most  painful,  cruel, 
lingering  death?"  —  "Pooh!  pooh!"  cries  the  squire;  "all 
stuff  and  nonsense ;  all  maidenish  tricks.  Kill  you,  indeed ! 
Will  marriage  kill  you  ?  "  —  "  Oh  !  sir,"  answered  Sophia,  "  such  a 
marriage  is  worse  than  death.  He  is  not  even  indifferent;  I 
hate  and  detest  him."  —  "If  you  detest  un  never  so  much,"  cries 
Western,  "you  shall  ha'un."  This  he  bound  by  an  oath  too 
shocking  to  repeat ;  and  after  many  violent  asseverations,  con- 
cluded in  these  words  :  "  I  am  resolved  upon  the  match,  and  unless 
you  consent  to  it  I  will  not  give  you  a  groat,  not  a  single  farth- 
ing ;  no,  though  I  saw  you  expiring  with  famine  in  the  street,  I 
would  not  relieve  you  with  a  morsel  of  bread.  This  is  my  fixed 
resolution,  and  so  I  leave  you  to  consider  on  it."  He  then  broke 
from  her  with  such  violence,  that  her  face  dashed  against  the 
floor ;  and  he  burst  directly  out  of  the  room,  leaving  poor  Sophia 
prostrate  on  the  ground. 

When  Western  came  into  the  hall,  he  there  found  Jones  ;  who 
seeing  his  friend  looking  wild,  pale,  and  almost  breathless,  could 
not  forbear  enquiring  the  reason  of  all  these  melancholy  appear- 
ances. Upon  which  the  squire  immediately  acquainted  him  with 
the  whole  matter,  concluding  with  bitter  denunciations  against 
Sophia,  and  very  pathetic  lamentations  of  the  misery  of  all 
fathers  who  are  so  unfortunate  to  have  daughters. 

Jones,  to  whom  all  the  resolutions  which  had  been  taken  in 
favour  of  Blifil  were  yet  a  secret,  was  at  first  almost  struck  dead 
with  this  relation  ;  but  recovering  his  spirits  a  little,  mere  despair, 
as  he  afterwards  said,  inspired  him  to  mention  a  matter  to  Mr 
Western,  which  seemed  to  require  more  impudence  than  a  human 
forehead  was  ever  gifted  with.  He  desired  leave  to  go  to  Sophia, 
that  he  might  endeavour  to  obtain  her  concurrence  with  her 
father's  inchnations. 

If  the  squire  had  been  as  quicksighted  as  he  was  remarkable 
for  the  contrary,  passion  might  at  present  very  well  have  blinded 
him.  He  thanked  Jones  for  offering  to  undertake  the  office,  and 
said,  "  Go,  go,  prithee,  try  what  canst  do  ; "  and  then  swore  many 
execrable  oaths  that  he  would  turn  her  out  of  doors  unless  she 
consented  to  the  match. 


382  HENRY  FIELDING 

CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Meeting  between  Jones  and  Sophia 

Jones  departed  instantly  in  quest  of  Sophia,  whom  he  found 
just  risen  from  the  ground,  where  her  father  had  left  her,  with  the 
tears  trickling  from  her  eyes,  and  the  blood  running  from  her 
lips.  He  presently  ran  to  her,  and  with  a  voice  full  at  once  of 
tenderness  and  terrour,  cried,  "0  my  Sophia,  what  means  this 
dreadful  sight  ?  "  She  looked  softly  at  him  for  a  moment  before 
she  spoke,  and  then  said,  "Mr  Jones,  for  Heaven's  sake  how 
came  you  here?  —  Leave  me,  I  beseech  you,  this  moment."  — 
"Do  not,"  says  he,  "impose  so  harsh  a  command  upon  me  —  my 
heart  bleeds  faster  than  those  lips.  O  Sophia,  how  easily  could 
I  drain  my  veins  to  preserve  one  drop  of  that  dear  blood."  —  "I 
have  too  many  obligations  to  you  already,"  answered  she,  "for 
sure  you  meant  them  such."  Here  she  looked  at  him  tenderly 
almost  a  minute,  and  then  bursting  into  an  agony,  cried,  "Oh, 
Mr  Jones,  why  did  you  save  my  life  ?  my  death  would  have  been 
happier  for  us  both."  —  "Happier  for  us  both!"  cried  he. 
"Could  racks  or  wheels  kill  me  so  painfully  as  Sophia's  —  I 
cannot  bear  the  dreadful  sound.  Do  I  live  but  for  her  ?"  Both 
his  voice  and  looks  were  full  of  inexpressible  tenderness  when  he 
spoke  these  words ;  and  at  the  same  time  he  laid  gently  hold  on 
her  hand,  which  she  did  not  withdraw  from  him  ;  to  say  the  truth, 
she  hardly  knew  what  she  did  or  suffered.  A  few  moments  now 
passed  in  silence  between  these  lovers,  while  his  eyes  were  eagerly 
fixed  on  Sophia,  and  hers  declining  towards  the  ground :  at 
last  she  recovered  strength  enough  to  desire  him  again  to  leave 
her,  for  that  her  certain  ruin  would  be  the  consequence  of  their 
being  found  together;  adding,  "Oh,  Mr  Jones,  you  know  not, 
you  know  not  what  hath  passed  this  cruel  afternoon."  —  "I 
know  all,  my  Sophia,"  answered  he;  "your  cruel  father  hath 
told  me  all,  and  he  himself  hath  sent  me  hither  to  you."  —  "My 
father  sent  you  to  me!"  replied  she:  "sure  you  dream."  — 
"Would  to  Heaven,"  cries  he,  "it  was  but  a  dream  !  Oh, 
Sophia,  your  father  hath  sent  me  to  you,  to  be  an  advocate  for 
my  odious  rival,  to  solicit  you  in  his  favour.     I  took  any  means  to 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     383 

get  access  to  you.  O  speak  to  me,  Sophia  !  comfort  my  bleeding 
heart.  Sure  no  one  ever  loved,  ever  doated  like  me.  Do  not 
unkindly  withhold  this  dear,  this  soft,  this  gentle  hand  —  one 
moment,  perhaps,  tears  you  for  ever  from  me  —  nothing  less 
than  this  cruel  occasion  could,  I  believe,  have  ever  conquered 
the  respect  and  awe  with  which  you  have  inspired  me."  She 
stood  a  moment  silent,  and  covered  with  confusion  ;  then  lifting 
up  her  eyes  gently  towards  him,  she  cried,  "What  would  Mr 
Jones  have  me  say?"  —  "O  do  but  promise,"  cries  he,  "that 
you  never  will  give  yourself  to  Blifil."  —  "Name  not,"  answered 
she,  "the  detested  sound.  Be  assured  I  never  will  give  him 
what  is  in  my  power  to  withhold  from  him."  —  "Now  then," 
cries  he,  "while  you  are  so  perfectly  kind,  go  a  little  farther,  and 
add  that  I  may  hope."  —  "Alas  !"  says  she,  "Mr  Jones,  whither 
will  you  drive  me  ?  What  hope  have  I  to  bestow  ?  You  know 
my  father's  intentions."  —  "But  I  know,"  answered  he,  "your 
compliance  with  them  cannot  be  compelled."  —  "What,"  says 
she,  "must  be  the  dreadful  consequence  of  my  disobedience? 
My  own  ruin  is  my  last  concern.  I  cannot  bear  the  thoughts  of 
being  the  cause  of  my  father's  misery."  —  "He  is  himself  the 
cause,"  cries  Jones,  "by  exacting  a  power  over  you  which  Nature 
hath  not  given  him.  Think  on  the  misery  which  I  am  to  suffer  if 
I  am  to  lose  you,  and  see  on  which  side  pity  will  turn  the  balance." 
—  "Think  of  it !"  replied  she :  "can  you  imagine  I  do  not  feel 
the  ruin  which  I  must  bring  on  you,  should  I  comply  with  your 
desire  ?  It  is  that  thought  which  gives  me  resolution  to  bid 
you  fly  from  me  for  ever,  and  avoid  your  own  destruction."  — 
"I  fear  no  destruction,"  cries  he,  "but  the  loss  of  Sophia.  If 
you  would  save  me  from  the  most  bitter  agonies,  recall  that 
cruel  sentence.  Indeed,  I  can  never  part  with  you,  indeed  I 
cannot." 

The  lovers  now  stood  both  silent  and  trembling,  Sophia  being 
unable  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  Jones,  and  he  almost  as  unable 
to  hold  it ;  when  the  scene,  which  I  believe  some  of  my  readers 
will  think  had  lasted  long  enough,  was  interrupted  by  one  of  so 
different  a  nature,  that  we  shall  reserve  the  relation  of  it  for  a 
different  chapter. 


384  HENRY  FIELDING 

CHAPTER   IX 

Being  of  a  much  more  Tempestuous  Kind  than  the  Former 

Before  we  proceed  with  what  now  happened  to  our  lovers,  it 
may  be  proper  to  recount  what  had  past  in  the  hall  during  their 
tender  interview. 

Soon  after  Jones  had  left  Mr  Western  in  the  manner  above 
mentioned,  his  sister  came  to  him,  and  was  presently  informed  of 
all  that  had  passed  between  her  brother  and  Sophia  relating  to 
Blifil. 

This  behaviour  in  her  niece  the  good  lady  construed  to  be  an 
absolute  breach  of  the  condition  on  which  she  had  engaged  to 
keep  her  love  for  Mr  Jones  a  secret.  She  considered  herself, 
therefore,  at  full  hberty  to  reveal  all  she  knew  to  the  squire,  which 
she  immediately  did  in  the  most  explicit  terms,  and  without  any 
ceremony  or  preface. 

The  idea  of  a  marriage  between  Jones  and  his  daughter,  had 
never  once  entered  into  the  squire's  head,  either  in  the  warmest 
minutes  of  his  affection  towards  that  young  man,  or  from  sus- 
picion, or  on  any  other  occasion.  He  did  indeed  consider  a  parity 
of  fortune  and  circumstances  to  be  physically  as  necessary  an 
ingredient  in  marriage,  as  difference  of  sexes,  or  any  other  essen- 
tial ;  and  had  no  more  apprehension  of  his  daughter's  falling  in 
love  with  a  poor  man,  than  with  any  animal  of  a  different  species. 

He  became,  therefore,  like  one  thunderstruck  at  his  sister's 
relation.  He  was,  at  first,  incapable  of  making  any  answer, 
having  been  almost  deprived  of  his  breath  by  the  violence  of  the 
surprize.  This,  however,  soon  returned,  and,  as  is  usual  in  other 
cases  after  an  intermission,  with  redoubled  force  and  fury. 

The  first  use  he  made  of  the  power  of  speech,  after  his  recovery 
from  the  sudden  effects  of  his  astonishment,  was  to  discharge  a 
round  volley  of  oaths  and  imprecations.  After  which  he  pro- 
ceeded hastily  to  the  apartment  where  he  expected  to  find  the 
lovers,  and  murmured,  or  rather  indeed  roared  forth,  intentions 
of  revenge  every  step  he  went. 

As  when  two  doves,  or  two  wood-pigeons,  or  as  when  Strephon 
and  PhyUis  (for  that  comes  nearest  to  the  mark)  are  retired  into 
some  pleasant  sohtary  grove,  to  enjoy  the  delightful  conversation 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     385 

of  Love,  that  bashful  boy,  who  cannot  speak  in  pubHc,  and  is 
never  a  good  companion  to  more  than  two  at  a  time  ;  here,  while 
every  object  is  serene,  should  hoarse  thunder  burst  suddenly 
through  the  shattered  clouds,  and  rumbling  roll  along  the  sky, 
the  frightened  maid  starts  from  the  mossy  bank  or  verdant  turf, 
the  pale  livery  of  death  succeeds  the  red  regimentals  in  which 
Love  had  before  drest  her  cheeks,  fear  shakes  her  whole  frame, 
and  her  lover  scarce  supports  her  trembling  tottering  limbs. 

Or  as  when  two  gentlemen,  strangers  to  the  wondrous  wit  of 
the  place,  are  cracking  a  bottle  together  at  some  inn  or  tavern  at 
Salisbury,  if  the  great  Dowdy,  who  acts  the  part  of  a  madman  as 
well  as  some  of  his  setters-on  do  that  of  a  fool,  should  rattle  his 
chains,  and  dreadfully  hum  forth  the  grumbhng  catch  along  the 
gallery ;  the  frighted  strangers  stand  aghast ;  scared  at  the  horrid 
sound,  they  seek  some  place  of  shelter  from  the  approaching 
danger;  and  if  the  well-barred  windows  did  admit  their  exit, 
would  venture  their  necks  to  escape  the  threatening  fury  now 
coming  upon  them. 

So  trembled  poor  Sophia,  so  turned  she  pale  at  the  noise  of  her 
father,  who,  in  a  voice  most  dreadful  to  hear,  came  on  swearing, 
cursing,  and  vowing  the  destruction  of  Jones.  To  say  the  truth, 
I  believe  the  youth  himself  would,  from  some  prudent  considera- 
tions, have  preferred  another  place  of  abode  at  this  time,  had  his 
terror  on  Sophia's  account  given  him  liberty  to  reflect  a  moment 
on  what  any  otherways  concerned  himself,  than  as  his  love  made 
him  partake  whatever  affected  her. 

And  now  the  squire,  having  burst  open  the  door,  beheld  an 
object  which  instantly  suspended  all  his  fury  against  Jones ;  this 
was  the  ghastly  appearance  of  Sophia,  who  had  fainted  away  in 
her  lover's  arms.  This  tragical  sight  Mr  Western  no  sooner 
beheld,  than  all  his  rage  forsook  him ;  he  roared  for  help  with 
his  utmost  violence ;  ran  first  to  his  daughter,  then  back  to  the 
door  calling  for  water,  and  then  back  again  to  Sophia,  never  con- 
sidering in  whose  arms  she  then  was,  nor  perhaps  once  recollecting 
that  there  was  such  a  person  in  the  world  as  Jones  ;  for  indeed  I 
believe  the  present  circumstances  of  his  daughter  were  now  the 
sole  consideration  which  employed  his  thoughts. 

Mrs  Western  and  a  great  number  of  servants  soon  came  to  the 


386  HENRY  FIELDING 

assistance  of  Sophia  with  water,  cordials,  and  everything  neces- 
sary on  those  occasions.  These  were  appHed  with  such  success, 
that  Sophia  in  a  very  few  minutes  began  to  recover,  and  all  the 
symptoms  of  life  to  return.  Upon  which  she  was  presently  led 
off  by  her  own  maid  and  Mrs  Western :  nor  did  that  good  lady 
depart  without  leaving  some  wholesome  admonitions  with  her 
brother,  on  the  dreadful  effects  of  his  passion,  or,  as  she  pleased 
to  call  it,  madness. 

The  squire,  perhaps,  did  not  understand  this  good  advice,  as 
it  was  delivered  in  obscure  hints,  shrugs,  and  notes  of  admiration : 
at  least,  if  he  did  understand  it,  he  profited  very  little  by  it ; 
for  no  sooner  was  he  cured  of  his  immediate  fears  for  his  daughter, 
than  he  relapsed  into  his  former  frenzy,  which  must  have  pro- 
duced an  immediate  battle  with  Jones,  had  not  parson  Supple, 
who  was  a  very  strong  man,  been  present,  and  by  mere  force 
restrained  the  squire  from  acts  of  hostility. 

The  moment  Sophia  was  departed,  Jones  advanced  in  a  very 
suppliant  manner  to  Mr  Western,  whom  the  parson  held  in  his 
arms,  and  begged  him  to  be  pacified  ;  for  that,  while  he  con- 
tinued in  such  a  passion,  it  would  be  impossible  to  give  him 
any  satisfaction. 

"I  wull  have  satisfaction  o'  thee,"  answered  the  squire;  "so 
doff  thy  clothes.  At  unt  half  a  man,  and  I'll  lick  thee  as  well  as 
wast  ever  licked  in  thy  life."  He  then  bespattered  the  youth 
with  abundance  of  that  language  which  passes  between  country 
gentlemen  who  embrace  opposite  sides  of  the  question ;  with 
frequent  applications  to  him  to  salute  that  part  which  is  generally 
introduced  into  all  controversies  that  arise  among  the  lower 
orders  of  the  English  gentry  at  horse-races,  cock-matches,  and 
other  public  places.  Allusions  to  this  part  are  likewise  often 
made  for  the  sake  of  the  jest.  And  here,  I  beHeve,  the  wit  is 
generally  misunderstood.     In  reahty,  it  hes  in  desiring  another 

to  kiss  your  a for  having  just  before  threatened  to  kick  his ; 

for  I  have  observed  very  accurately,  that  no  one  ever  desires  you 
to  kick  that  which  belongs  to  himself,  nor  offers  to  kiss  this  part 
in  another. 

It  may  likewise  seem  surprizing  that  in  the  many  thousand 
kind  invitations  of  this  sort,  which  every  one  who  hath  conversed 


THE  HISTORY  OF   TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     387 

with  country  gentlemen  must  have  heard,  no  one,  I  beheve,  hath 
ever  seen  a  single  instance  where  the  desire  hath  been  complied 
with  ;  —  a  great  instance  of  their  want  of  politeness ;  for  in  town 
nothing  can  be  more  common  than  for  the  finest  gentlemen  to 
perform  this  ceremony  every  day  to  their  superiors,  without 
having  that  favour  once  requested  of  them. 

To  all  such  wit,  Jones  very  calmly  answered,  "Sir,  this  usage 
may  perhaps  cancel  every  other  obligation  you  have  conferred 
on  me  ;  but  there  is  one  you  can  never  cancel ;  nor  will  I  be  pro- 
voked by  your  abuse  to  lift  my  hand  against  the  father  of  Sophia." 

At  these  words  the  squire  grew  still  more  outrageous  than 
before  ;  so  that  the  parson  begged  Jones  to  retire  ;  saying,  "You 
behold,  sir,  how  he  waxeth  wrath  at  your  abode  here ;  therefore 
let  me  pray  you  not  to  tarry  any  longer.  His  anger  is  too  much 
kindled  for  you  to  commune  with  him  at  present.  You  had 
better,  therefore,  conclude  your  visit,  and  refer  what  matters 
you  have  to  urge  in  your  behalf  to  some  other  opportunity." 

Jones  accepted  this  advice  with  thanks,  and  immediately 
departed.  The  squire  now  regained  the  hberty  of  his  hands, 
and  so  much  temper  as  to  express  some  satisfaction  in  the  re- 
straint which  had  been  laid  upon  him ;  declaring  that  he  should 
certainly  have  beat  his  brains  out ;  and  adding,  "It  would  have 
vexed  one  confoundedly  to  have  been  hanged  for  such  a  rascal." 

The  parson  now  began  to  triumph  in  the  success  of  his  peace- 
making endeavours,  and  proceeded  to  read  a  lecture  against 
anger,  which  might  perhaps  rather  have  tended  to  raise  than  to 
quiet  that  passion  in  some  hasty  minds.  This  lecture  he  en- 
riched with  many  valuable  quotations  from  the  antients,  partic- 
ularly from  Seneca;  who  hath  indeed  so  well  handled  this 
passion,  that  none  but  a  very  angry  man  can  read  him  without 
great  pleasure  and  profit.  The  doctor  concluded  this  harangue 
with  the  famous  story  of  Alexander  and  Chtus  ;  but  as  I  find  that 
entered  in  my  common-place  under  title  Drunkenness,  I  shall 
not  insert  it  here. 

The  squire  took  no  notice  of  this  story,  nor  perhaps  of  anything 
he  said  ;  for  he  interrupted  him  before  he  had  finished,  by  calling 
for  a  tankard  of  beer ;  observing  (which  is  perhaps  as  true  as  any 
observation  on  this  fever  of  the  mind)  that  anger  makes  a  man  dry. 


388  HENRY  FIELDING 

No  sooner  had  the  squire  swallowed  a  large  draught  than  he 
renewed  the  discourse  on  Jones,  and  declared  a  resolution  of  going 
the  next  morning  early  to  acquaint  Mr  Allworthy.  His  friend 
would  have  dissuaded  him  from  this,  from  the  mere  motive  of 
good-nature ;  but  his  dissuasion  had  no  other  effect  than  to  pro- 
duce a  large  volley  of  oaths  and  curses,  which  greatly  shocked 
the  pious  ears  of  Supple ;  but  he  did  not  dare  to  remonstrate 
against  a  privilege  which  the  squire  claimed  as  a  freeborn  Eng- 
lishman. To  say  truth,  the  parson  submitted  to  please  his 
palate  at  the  squire's  table,  at  the  expense  of  suffering  now  and 
then  this  violence  to  his  ears.  He  contented  himself  with  think- 
ing he  did  not  promote  this  evil  practice,  and  that  the  squire 
would  not  swear  an  oath  the  less,  if  he  never  entered  within  his 
gates.  However,  though  he  was  not  guilty  of  ill  manners  by 
rebuking  a  gentleman  in  his  own  house,  he  paid  him  off  obHquely 
in  the  pulpit :  which  had  not,  indeed,  the  good  effect  of  working  a 
reformation  in  the  squire  himself ;  yet  it  so  far  operated  on  his 
conscience,  that  he  put  the  laws  very  severely  in  execution  against 
others,  and  the  magistrate  was  the  only  person  in  the  parish 
who  could  swear  with  impunity. 

CHAPTER  X 
In  which  Mr  Western  visits  Mr  Allworthy 

Mr  Allworthy  was  now  retired  from  breakfast  with  his 
nephew,  well  satisfied  with  the  report  of  the  young  gentleman's 
successful  visit  to  Sophia  (for  he  greatly  desired  the  match,  more 
on  account  of  the  lady's  character  than  of  her  riches),  when  Mr 
Western  broke  abruptly  in  upon  them,  and  without  any  ceremony 
began  as  follows  :  — 

"There,  you  have  done  a  fine  piece  of  work  truly  !  You  have 
brought  up  your  bastard  to  a  fine  purpose ;  not  that  I  believe  you 
have  had  any  hand  in  it  neither,  that  is,  as  a  man  may  say, 
designedly :  but  there  is  a  fine  kettle-of-fish  made  on't  up  at  our 
house."  "Whatcanbethematter,  Mr  Western?"  said  Allworthy. 
"O,  matter  enow  of  all  conscience;  my  daughter  hath  fallen  in 
love  with  your  bastard,  that's  all ;  but  I  won't  gc  her  a  hapeny, 
not  the  twentieth  part  of  a  brass  varden.     I  always  thought  what 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,   A  FOUNDLING     389 

would  come  o'  breeding  up  a  bastard  like  a  gentleman,  and  letting 
un  come  about  to  vok's  houses.  It's  well  vor  un  I  could  not  get 
at  un :  I'd  a  lick'd  un ;  I'd  a  spoil'd  his  caterwauling ;  I'd  a 
taught  the  son  of  a  whore  to  meddle  with  meat  for  his  master. 
He  shan't  ever  have  a  morsel  of  meat  of  mine,  or  a  varden  to  buy 
it :  if  she  will  ha  un,  one  smock  shall  be  her  portion.  I'd  sooner 
ge  my  esteate  to  the  zinking  fund,  that  it  may  be  sent  to  Hanover 
to  corrupt  our  nation  with."  "I  am  heartily  sorry,"  cries 
Allworthy.  "Pox  o'  your  sorrow,"  says  Western  ;  "it  will  do  me 
abundance  of  good  when  I  have  lost  my  only  child,  my  poor 
Sophy,  that  was  the  joy  of  my  heart,  and  all  the  hope  and  com- 
fort of  my  age ;  but  I  am  resolved  I  will  turn  her  out  o'  doors ; 
she  shall  beg,  and  starve,  and  rot  in  the  streets.  Not  one  hapeny, 
not  a  hapeny  shall  she  ever  hae  o'  mine.  The  son  of  a  bitch  was 
always  good  at  finding  a  hare  sitting,  an  be  rotted  to'n :  I 
little  thought  what  puss  he  was  looking  after;  but  it  shall  be 
the  worst  he  ever  vound  in  his  Hfe.  She  shall  be  no  better  than 
carrion  :  the  skin  o'er  is  all  he  shall  ha,  and  zu  you  may  tell  un." 
" I  am  in  amazement,"  cries  Allworthy,  "at  what  you  tell  me,  after 
what  passed  between  my  nephew  and  the  young  lady  no  longer 
ago  than  yesterday."  "Yes,  sir,"  answered  Western,  "it  was 
after  what  passed  between  your  nephew  and  she  that  the  whole 
matter  came  out.  Mr  Bhfi.1  there  was  no  sooner  gone  than  the 
son  of  a  whore  came  lurching  about  the  house.  Little  did  I 
think  when  I  used  to  love  him  for  a  sportsman  that  he  was  all 
the  while  a  poaching  after  my  daughter."  "Why  truly,"  says 
Allworthy,  "I  could  wish  you  had  not  given  him  so  many  oppor- 
tunities with  her ;  and  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  acknowledge 
that  I  have  always  been  averse  to  his  staying  so  much  at  your 
house,  though  I  own  I  had  no  suspicion  of  this  kind."  "Why, 
zounds,"  cries  Western,  "who  could  have  thought  it  ?  What  the 
devil  had  she  to  do  wi'n  ?  He  did  not  come  there  a  courting  to 
her ;  he  came  there  a  hunting  with  me."  "But  was  it  possible," 
says  Allworthy,  "that  you  should  never  discern  any  symptoms 
of  love  between  them,  when  you  have  seen  them  so  often  to- 
gether?" "Never  in  my  life,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved,"  cries 
Western :  "I  never  so  much  as  zeed  him  kiss  her  in  all  my  life ; 
and  so  far  from  courting  her,  he  used  rather  to  be  more  silent 


390 


HENRY  FIELDING 


when  she  was  in  company  than  at  any  other  time ;  and  as  for 
the  girl,  she  was  always  less  civil  to'n  than  to  any  young  man  that 
came  to  the  house.  As  to  that  matter,  I  am  not  more  easy  to  be 
deceived  than  another ;  I  would  not  have  you  think  I  am,  neigh- 
bour." All  worthy  could  scarce  refrain  laughter  at  this ;  but  he 
resolved  to  do  a  violence  to  himself ;  for  he  perfectly  well  knew 
mankind,  and  had  too  much  good-breeding  and  good-nature 
to  offend  the  squire  in  his  present  circumstances.  He  then  asked 
Western  what  he  would  have  him  do  upon  this  occasion.  To 
which  the  other  answered,  ''That  he  would  have  him  keep  the 
rascal  away  from  his  house,  and  that  he  would  go  and  lock  up  the 
wench ;  for  he  was  resolved  to  make  her  marry  Mr  Blifil  in  spite 
of  her  teeth."  He  then  shook  Blifil  by  the  hand,  and  swore  he 
would  have  no  other  son-in-law.  Presently  after  which  he  took 
his  leave ;  saying  his  house  was  in  such  disorder  that  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  make  haste  home,  to  take  care  his  daughter 
did  not  give  him  the  slip  ;  and  as  for  Jones,  he  swore  if  he  caught 
him  at  his  house,  he  would  qualify  him  to  run  for  the  geldings' 
plate. 

When  Allworthy  and  Blifil  were  again  left  together,  a  long 
silence  ensued  between  them  ;  all  which  interval  the  young  gen- 
tleman filled  up  with  sighs,  which  proceeded  partly  from  disap- 
pointment, but  more  from  hatred ;  for  the  success  of  Jones  was 
much  more  grievous  to  him  than  the  loss  of  Sophia. 

At  length  his  uncle  asked  him  what  he  was  determined  to  do, 
and  he  answered  in  the  following  words  :  —  "Alas  !  sir,  can  it  be 
a  question  what  step  a  lover  will  take,  when  reason  and  passion 
point  different  ways  ?  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  certain  he  will,  in 
that  dilemma,  always  follow  the  latter.  Reason  dictates  to  me, 
to  quit  all  thoughts  of  a  woman  who  places  her  affections  on 
another ;  my  passion  bids  me  hope  she  may  in  time  change  her 
inclinations  in  my  favour.  Here,  however,  I  conceive  an  objec- 
tion may  be  raised,  which,  if  it  could  not  fully  be  answered,  would 
totally  deter  me  from  any  further  pursuit.  I  mean  the  injustice 
of  endeavouring  to  supplant  another  in  a  heart  of  which  he  seems 
already  in  possession ;  but  the  determined  resolution  of  Mr 
Western  shows  that,  in  this  case,  I  shall,  by  so  doing,  promote 
the  happiness  of  every  party ;   not  only  that  of  the  parent,  who 


THE   HISTORY  OF   TOM   JONES,   A   FOUNDLING     391 

will  thus  be  preserved  from  the  highest  degree  of  misery,  but  of 
both  the  others,  who  must  be  undone  by  this  match.  The  lady, 
I  am  sure,  will  be  undone  in  every  sense ;  for,  besides  the  loss  of 
most  part  of  her  own  fortune,  she  will  be  not  only  married  to  a 
beggar,  but  the  little  fortune  which  her  father  cannot  withhold 
from  her  will  be  squandered  on  that  wench  with  whom  I  know 
he  yet  converses.  Nay,  that  is  a  trifle ;  for  I  know  him  to  be 
one  of  the  worst  men  in  the  world  ;  for  had  my  dear  uncle  known 
what  I  have  hitherto  endeavoured  to  conceal,  he  must  have  long 
since  abandoned  so  profligate  a  wretch."  "How!"  said  All- 
worthy;  "hath  he  done  anything  worse  than  I  already  know  ? 
Tell  me,  I  beseech  you  ?"  "No,"  rephed  Bhlil ;  "it  is  now  past, 
and  perhaps  he  may  have  repented  of  it."  "I  command  you, 
on  your  duty,"  said  Allworthy,  "to  tell  me  what  you  mean." 
"You  know,  sir,"  says  Bliiil,  "I  never  disobeyed  you ;  but  I  am 
sorry  I  mentioned  it,  since  it  may  now  look  like  revenge,  whereas, 
I  thank  Heaven,  no  such  motive  ever  entered  my  heart ;  and  if 
you  oblige  me  to  discover  it,  I  must  be  his  petitioner  to  you  for 
your  forgiveness."  "I  will  have  no  conditions,"  answered  All- 
worthy  ;  "I  think  I  have  shown  tenderness  enough  towards  him, 
and  more  perhaps  than  you  ought  to  thank  me  for."  "More, 
indeed,  I  fear,  than  he  deserved,"  cries  Blifil;  "for  in  the  very 
day  of  your  utmost  danger,  when  myself  and  all  the  family  were 
in  tears,  he  filled  the  house  with  riot  and  debauchery.  He 
drank,  and  sung,  and  roared  ;  and  when  I  gave  him  a  gentle  hint 
of  the  indecency  of  his  actions,  he  fell  into  a  violent  passion, 
swore  many  oaths,  called  me  rascal,  and  struck  me."  "How  !" 
cries  Allworthy;  "did  he  dare  to  strike  you?"  "I  am  sure," 
cries  Blifil,  "I  have  forgiven  him  that  long  ago.  I  wish  I  could 
so  easily  forget  his  ingratitude  to  the  best  of  benefactors ;  and 
yet  even  that  I  hope  you  will  forgive  him,  since  he  must  have 
certainly  been  possessed  with  the  devil :  for  that  very  evening,  as 
Mr  Thwackum  and  myself  were  taking  the  air  in  the  fields,  and 
exulting  in  the  good  symptoms  which  then  first  began  to  discover 
themselves,  we  unluckily  saw  him  engaged  with  a  wench  in  a 
manner  not  fit  to  be  mentioned.  Mr  Thwackum,  with  more 
boldness  than  prudence,  advanced  to  rebuke  him,  when  (I  am 
sorry  to  say  it)  he  fell  upon  the  worthy  man,  and  beat  him  so 


392 


HENRY   FIELDING 


outrageously  that  I  wish  he  may  have  yet  recovered  the  bruises. 
Nor  was  I  without  my  share  of  the  effects  of  his  malice,  while  I 
endeavoured  to  protect  my  tutor ;  but  that  I  have  long  forgiven ; 
nay,  I  prevailed  with  Mr  Thwackum  to  forgive  him  too,  and 
not  to  inform  you  of  a  secret  which  I  feared  might  be  fatal  to  him. 
And  now,  sir,  since  I  have  unadvisedly  dropped  a  hint  of  this 
matter,  and  your  commands  have  obliged  me  to  discover  the 
whole,  let  me  intercede  with  you  for  him."  "O  child!"  said 
All  worthy,  "I  know  not  whether  I  should  blame  or  applaud  your 
goodness,  in  concealing  such  villany  a  moment :  but  where  is 
Mr  Thwackum  ?  Not  that  I  want  any  confirmation  of  what 
you  say ;  but  I  will  examine  all  the  evidence  of  this  matter,  to 
justify  to  the  world  the  example  I  am  resolved  to  make  of  such 
a  monster." 

Thwackum  was  now  sent  for,  and  presently  appeared.  He 
corroborated  every  circumstance  which  the  other  had  deposed ; 
nay,  he  produced  the  record  upon  his  breast,  where  the  hand- 
writing of  Mr  Jones  remained  very  legible  in  black  and  blue. 
He  concluded  with  declaring  to  Mr  Allworthy,  that  he  should 
have  long  since  informed  him  of  this  matter,  had  not  Mr  Blifil, 
by  the  most  earnest  interpositions,  prevented  him.  "He  is," 
says  he,  "an  excellent  youth  :  though  such  forgiveness  of  enemies 
is  carrying  the  matter  too  far." 

In  reality,  Blifil  had  taken  some  pains  to  prevail  with  the 
parson,  and  to  prevent  the  discovery  at  that  time ;  for  which  he 
had  many  reasons.  He  knew  that  the  minds  of  men  are  apt  to 
be  softened  and  relaxed  from  their  usual  severity  by  sickness. 
Besides,  he  imagined  that  if  the  story  was  told  when  the  fact 
was  so  recent,  and  the  physician  about  the  house,  who  might 
have  unravelled  the  real  truth,  he  should  never  be  able  to  give 
it  the  malicious  turn  which  he  intended.  Again,  he  resolved  to 
hoard  up  this  business,  till  the  indiscretion  of  Jones  should  afford 
some  additional  complaints ;  for  he  thought  the  joint  weight  of 
many  facts  falling  upon  him  together,  would  be  the  most  likely 
to  crush  him  ;  and  he  watched,  therefore,  some  such  opportunity 
as  that  with  which  fortune  had  now  kindly  presented  him. 
Lastly,  by  prevailing  with  Thwackum  to  conceal  the  matter  for  a 
time,  he  knew  he  should  confirm  an  opinion  of  his  friendship 


THE  HISTORY   OF   TOM   JONES,  A   FOUNDLING     393 

to  Jones,  which  he  had  greatly  laboured  to  establish  in  Mr 
Allworthy. 

CHAPTER  XI 

A  Short  Chapter;   but  which  contains  Sufficient  Matter  to 

AFFECT  THE   GoOD-NATURED  READER 

It  was  Mr  AUworthy's  custom  never  to  punish  any  one,  not 
even  to  turn  away  a  servant,  in  a  passion.  He  resolved  there- 
fore to  delay  passing  sentence  on  Jones  till  the  afternoon. 

The  poor  young  man  attended  at  dinner,  as  usual ;  but  his 
heart  was  too  much  loaded  to  suffer  him  to  eat.  His  grief  too 
was  a  good  deal  aggravated  by  the  unkind  looks  of  Mr  All- 
worthy  ;  whence  he  concluded  that  Western  had  discovered  the 
whole  affair  between  him  and  Sophia ;  but  as  to  Mr  Bhlirs 
story,  he  had  not  the  least  apprehension  ;  for  of  much  the  greater 
part  he  was  entirely  innocent;  and  for  the  residue,  as  he  had 
forgiven  and  forgotten  it  himself,  so  he  suspected  no  remembrance 
on  the  other  side.  When  dinner  was  over,  and  the  servants 
departed,  Mr  Allworthy  began  to  harangue.  He  set  forth,  in  a 
long  speech,  the  many  iniquities  of  which  Jones  had  been  guilty, 
particularly  those  which  this  day  had  brought  to  light ;  and 
concluded  by  telling  him,  "That  unless  he  could  clear  himself  of 
the  charge,  he  was  resolved  to  banish  him  his  sight  for  ever." 

Many  disadvantages  attended  poor  Jones  in  making  his  de- 
fence ;  nay,  indeed,  he  hardly  knew  his  accusation ;  for  as  Mr 
Allworthy,  in  recounting  the  drunkenness,  &c.,  while  he  lay  ill, 
out  of  modesty  sunk  everything  that  related  particularly  to 
himself,  which  indeed  principally  consituted  the  crime ;  Jones 
could  not  deny  the  charge.  His  heart  was,  besides,  almost 
broken  already ;  and  his  spirits  were  so  sunk,  that  he  could  say 
nothing  for  himself ;  but  acknowledged  the  whole,  and,  like  a 
criminal  in  despair,  threw  himself  upon  mercy ;  concluding, 
"That  though  he  must  own  himself  guilty  of  many  foUies  and 
inadvertencies,  he  hoped  he  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  what 
would  be  to  him  the  greatest  punishment  in  the  world." 

Allworthy  answered,  "That  he  had  forgiven  him  too  often 
already,  in  compassion  to  his  youth,  and  in  hopes  of  his  amend- 
ment :   that  he  now  found  he  was  an  abandoned  reprobate,  and 


394 


HENRY   FIELDING 


such  as  it  would  be  criminal  in  any  one  to  support  and  encourage. 
Nay,"  said  Mr  Allworthy  to  him,  ''your  audacious  attempt  to 
steal  away  the  young  lady,  calls  upon  me  to  justify  my  own  char- 
acter in  punishing  you.  The  world  who  have  already  censured 
the  regard  I  have  shown  for  you  may  think,  with  some  colour  at 
least  of  justice,  that  I  connive  at  so  base  and  barbarous  an  action 
—  an  action  of  which  you  must  have  known  my  abhorrence  :  and 
which,  had  you  had  any  concern  for  my  ease  and  honour,  as  well 
as  for  my  friendship,  you  would  never  have  thought  of  under- 
taking. Fie  upon  it,  young  man  !  indeed  there  is  scarce  any 
punishment  equal  to  your  crimes,  and  I  can  scarce  think  myself 
justifiable  in  what  I  am  now  going  to  bestow  on  you.  However, 
as  I  have  educated  you  like  a  child  of  my  own,  I  will  not  turn 
you  naked  into  the  world.  When  you  open  this  paper,  therefore, 
you  will  find  something  which  may  enable  you,  with  industry, 
to  get  an  honest  livelihood ;  but  if  you  employ  it  to  worse  pur- 
poses, I  shall  not  think  myself  obliged  to  supply  you  farther, 
being  resolved,  from  this  day  forward,  to  converse  no  more  with 
you  on  any  account.  I  cannot  avoid  saying,  there  is  no  part  of 
your  conduct  which  I  resent  more  than  your  ill-treatment  of 
that  good  young  man  (meaning  Bhfil)  who  hath  behaved  with 
so  much  tenderness  and  honour  towards  you." 

These  last  words  were  a  dose  almost  too  bitter  to  be  swallowed. 
A  flood  of  tears  now  gushed  from  the  eyes  of  Jones,  and  every 
faculty  of  speech  and  motion  seemed  to  have  deserted  him.  It 
was  some  time  before  he  was  able  to  obey  Allworthy's  peremp- 
tory commands  of  departing ;  which  he  at  length  did,  having 
first  kissed  his  hands  with  a  passion  difficult  to  be  affected,  and 
as  difficult  to  be  described. 

The  reader  must  be  very  weak,  if,  when  he  considers  the  light 
in  which  Jones  then  appeared  to  Mr  Allworthy,  he  should  blame 
the  rigour  of  his  sentence.  And  yet  all  the  neighbourhood, 
either  from  this  weakness,  or  from  some  worse  motive,  condemned 
this  justice  and  severity  as  the  highest  cruelty.  Nay,  the  very 
persons  who  had  before  censured  the  good  man  for  the  kindness 
and  tenderness  shown  to  a  bastard  (his  own,  according  to  the 
general  opinion),  now  cried  out  as  loudly  against  turning  his 
own  child  out  of  doors.     The  women  especially  were  unanimous 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,  A  FOUNDLING     395 

in  taking  the  part  of    Jones,  and  raised  more  stories  on  the 
occasion  than  I  have  room,  in  this  chapter,  to  set  down. 

One  thing  must  not  be  omitted,  that,  in  their  censures  on  this 
occasion,  none  ever  mentioned  the  sum  contained  in  the  paper 
which  AUworthy  gave  Jones,  which  was  no  less  than  five  hundred 
pounds ;  but  all  agreed  that  he  was  sent  away  penniless,  and  some 
said  naked,  from  the  house  of  his  inhuman  father. 


THE   LIFE   AND    OPINIONS    OF   TRISTRAM    SHANDY, 

GENT. 

LAURENCE   STERNE 

BOOK  II.     CHAPTER  XII 

[My  Uncle  Toby  and  the  Fly^] 

My  uncle  Tohy  was  a  man  patient  of  injuries  ;  —  not  from  want 
of  courage,  —  I  have  told  you  in  a  former  chapter,  "  that  he  was 
a  man  of  courage:"  — And  will  add  here,  that  where  just  oc- 
casions presented,  or  called  it  forth,  —  I  know  no  man  under 
whose  arm  I  would  have  sooner  taken  shelter ;  —  nor  did  this 
arise  from  any  insensibihty  or  obtuseness  of  his  intellectual 
parts ;  —  for  he  felt  this  insult  of  my  father's  as  feelingly  as  a 
man  could  do ;  —  but  he  was  of  a  peaceful,  placid  nature,  —  no 
jarring  element  in  it,  —  all  was  mixed  up  so  kindly  within  him ; 
my  uncle  Tohy  had  scarce  a  heart  to  retaliate  upon  a  fly. 

— ^  Go  —  says  he,  one  day  at  dinner,  to  an  over-grown  one 
which  had  buzzed  about  his  nose,  and  tormented  him  cruelly 
all  dinner-time,  —  and  which  after  infinite  attempts,  he  had 
caught  at  last,  as  it  flew  by  him ;  —  I'll  not  hurt  thee,  says  my 
uncle  Tohy,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  going  across  the  room,  with 

the  fly  in  his  hand, I'll  not  hurt  a  hair  of  thy  head :  —  Go, 

says  he,  lifting  up  the  sash,  and  opening  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  to 
let  it  escape  ;  —  go,  poor  devil,  get  thee  gone,  why  should  I  hurt 

thee  ? This  world  surely  is  wide  enough  to  hold  both  thee 

and  me. 

I  was  but  ten  years  old  when  this  happened :  but  whether  it 
was,  that  the  action  itself  was  more  in  unison  to  my  nerves  at 

1  The  fragmentary  appearance  of  the  excerpts  from  "Tristram  Shandy"  and  "The  Man 
of  Feeling"  is  due  to  the  formlessness  of  the  books  themselves ;  both  of  these  novels  illustrate 
the  breaking  down  of  plot,  one  of  the  signs  of  decadence  in  the  novel  of  the  late  eighteenth 
century.  The  responsibility,  therefore,  for  abrupt  transition  lies  not  with  the  editors,  but 
with  the  authors. 

396 


LIFE  AND   OPINIONS  OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     397 

that  age  of  pity,  which  instantly  set  my  whole  frame  into  one 
vibration  of  most  pleasurable  sensation ;  —  or  how  far  the  man- 
ner and  expression  of  it  might  go  towards  it ;  —  or  in  what  degree, 
or  by  what  secret  magick,  —  a  tone  of  voice  and  harmony  of 
movement,  attuned  by  mercy,  might  find  a  passage  to  my  heart, 
I  know  not ;  —  this  I  know,  that  the  lesson  of  universal  good- 
will then  taught  and  imprinted  by  my  uncle  Toby,  has  never  since 
been  worn  out  of  my  mind  :  And  tho'  I  would  not  depreciate 
what  the  study  of  the  Litercc  kumaniores,  at  the  university,  have 
done  for  me  in  that  respect,  or  discredit  the  other  helps  of  an 
expensive  education  bestowed  upon  me,  both  at  home  and 
abroad  since ;  —  yet  I  often  think  that  I  owe  one  half  of  my  phil- 
anthropy to  that  one  accidental  impression. 

BOOK   V.     CHAPTER   VII 
[Corporal  Trim  and  his  Hat] 

—  Here  is  sad  news.  Trim,  cried  Susannah,  wiping  her  eyes 
as  Trim  stepp'd  into  the  kitchen,  —  master  Bobby  is  dead  and 
buried  —  the  funeral  was  an  interpolation  of  Susannah's  —  we 
shall  have  all  to  go  into  mourning,  said  Susannah. 

I  HOPE  not,  said  Trim.  —  You  hope  not  !  cried  Susannah 
earnestly.  —  The  mourning  ran  not  in  Trim's  head,  whatever  it 
did  in  Susannah's.  —  I  hope  —  said  Trim,  explaining  himself,  I 
hope  in  God  the  news  is  not  true.  —  I  heard  the  letter  read 
with  my  own  ears,  answered  Obadiah;  and  we  shall  have  a 
terrible  piece  of  work  of  it  in  stubbing  the  Ox-moor.  —  Oh  !  he's 
dead,  said  Susannah.  —  As  sure,  said  the  scullion,  as  I'm  alive. 

I  lament  for  him  from  my  heart  and  my  soul,  said  Trim, 
fetching  a  sigh.  —  Poor  creature  !  —  poor  boy  !  —  poor  gentle- 
man. 

—  He  was  alive  last  Whitsontide  !  said  the  coachman.  —  Whit- 
sontide  !  alas  !  cried  Trim,  extending  his  right  arm,  and  falling 
instantly  into  the  same  attitude  in  which  he  read  the  sermon, 
—  what  is  Whitsontide,  Jonathan  (for  that  was  the  coachman's 
name),  or  Shrovetide,  or  any  tide  or  time  past,  to  this  ?  Are  we 
not  here  now,  continued  the  corporal  (striking  the  end  of  his 
stick  perpendicularly  upon  the  floor,  so  as  to  give  an  idea  of 


398  LAURENCE   STERNE 

health  and  stability)  —  and  are  we  not  —  (dropping  his  hat  upon 
the  ground)  gone  !  in  a  moment !  — ■  'Twas  infinitely  striking  ! 
Susannah  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  —  We  are  not  stocks  and 
stones.  —  Jonathan,  Obadiah,  the  cook-maid,  all  melted.  — -  The 
foolish  fat  sculhon  herself,  who  was  scouring  a  fish-kettle  upon 
her  knees,  was  rous'd  with  it.  —  The  whole  kitchen  crowded 
about  the  corporal. 

Now,  as  I  perceive  plainly,  that  the  preservation  of  our  con- 
stitution in  church  and  state,  —  and  possibly  the  preservation 
of  the  whole  world  — ■  or  what  is  the  same  thing,  the  distribution 
and  balance  of  its  property  and  power,  may  in  time  to  come 
depend  greatly  upon  the  right  understanding  of  this  stroke  of 
the  corporal's  eloquence  —  I  do  demand  your  attention  —  your 
worships  and  reverences,  for  any  ten  pages  together,  take  them 
where  you  will  in  any  other  part  of  the  work,  shall  sleep  for  it 
at  your  ease. 

I  said,  ''we  were  not  stocks  and  stones"  —  'tis  very  well. 
I  should  have  added,  nor  are  we  angels,  I  wish  we  were,  — -  but 
men  clothed  with  bodies,  and  governed  by  our  imaginations ;  — • 
and  what  a  junketing  piece  of  work  of  it  there  is,  betwixt  these 
and  our  seven  senses,  especially  some  of  them,  for  my  own  part, 
I  own  it,  I  am  ashamed  to  confess.  Let  it  suffice  to  affirm,  that 
of  all  the  senses,  the  eye  (for  I  absolutely  deny  the  touch,  though 
most  of  your  Barbati,  I  know,  are  for  it)  has  the  quickest  com- 
merce with  the  soul,  —  gives  a  smarter  stroke,  and  leaves  some- 
thing more  inexpressible  upon  the  fancy,  than  words  can  either 
convey  —  or  sometimes  get  rid  of. 

—  I've  gone  a  little  about  —  no  matter,  'tis  for  health  —  let 
us  only  carry  it  back  in  our  mind  to  the  mortality  of  Trim's  hat. 
—  "Are  we  not  here  now,  —  and  gone  in  a  moment  ?"  —  There 
was  nothing  in  the  sentence  —  'twas  one  of  your  self-evident 
truths  we  have  the  advantage  of  hearing  every  day ;  and  if 
Trim  had  not  trusted  more  to  his  hat  than  his  head  —  he  had 
made  nothing  at  all  of  it. 

"Are  we  not  here  now;"  continued  the  corporal,  "and 

are  we  not"  —  (dropping  his  hat  plump  upon  the  ground  — 
and  pausing,  before  he  pronounced  the  word)  — "gone!  in  a 
moment?"     The  descent  of  the  hat  was  as  if  a  heavy  lump  of 


LIFE  AND   OPINIONS  OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     399 

clay  had  been  kneeded  into  the  crown  of  it.  — —  Nothing  could 
have  expressed  the  sentiment  of  mortality,  of  which  it  was  the 
type  and  fore-runner,  like  it,  —  his  hand  seemed  to  vanish  from 
under  it,  —  it  fell  dead,  —  the  corporal's  eye  fixed  upon  it,  as 
upon  a  corpse,  — •  and  Susannah  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

Now  —  Ten  thousand,  and  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand 
(for  matter  and  motion  are  infinite)  are  the  ways  by  which  a 

hat  may  be  dropped  upon  the  ground,  without  any  effect. . 

Had  he  flung  it,  or  thrown  it,  or  cast  it,  or  skimmed  it,  or  squirted 
it,  or  let  it  slip  or  fall  in  any  possible  direction  under  heaven,  — • 
or  in  the  best  direction  that  could  be  given  to  it,  —  had  he 
dropped  it  like  a  goose  —  hke  a  puppy  —  like  an  ass  — •  or  in 
doing  it,  or  even  after  he  had  done,  had  he  looked  like  a  fool  — 
like  a  ninny  —  like  a  nincompoop  —  it  had  fail'd,  and  the  effect 
upon  the  heart  had  been  lost. 

Ye  who  govern  this  mighty  world  and  its  mighty  concerns 
with  the  engines  of  eloquence,  —  who  heat  it,  and  cool  it,  and  melt 
it,  and  molhfy  it, and  then  harden  it  again  to  your  purpose 

Ye  who  wind  and  turn  the  passions  with  this  great  windlass, 
and,  having  done  it,  lead  the  owners  of  them,  whither  ye  think 
meet  — 

Ye,  lastly,  who   drive and  why  not,   Ye  also  who  are 

driven,  like  turkeys  to  market  with  a  stick  and  a  red  clout  — 
meditate —  meditate,  I  beseech  you,  upon  Trim's  hat. 

BOOK  VI.     CHAPTER  VI 
The  Story  of  Le  Fever 

It  was  some  time  in  the  summer  of  that  year  in  which  Den- 
dermond  was  taken  by  the  allies,  —  which  was  about  seven  years 
before  my  father  came  into  the  country,  —  and  about  as  many, 
after  the  time,  that  my  uncle  Toby  and  Trim  had  privately  de- 
camped from  my  father's  house  in  town,  in  order  to  lay  some 
of  the  finest  sieges  to  some  of  the  finest  fortified  cities  in  Europe 

when  my  uncle  Toby  was  one  evening  getting  his  supper, 

with  Trim  sitting  behind  him  at  a  small  sideboard,  —  I  say, 
sitting  —  for  in  consideration  of  the  corporal's  lame  knee  (which 


400  LAURENCE   STERNE 

sometimes  gave  him  exquisite  pain)  —  when  my  uncle  Tohy 
dined  or  supped  alone,  he  would  never  suffer  the  corporal  to 
stand ;  and  the  poor  fellow's  veneration  for  his  master  was  such, 
that,  with  a  proper  artillery,  my  uncle  Tohy  could  have  taken 
Dendermond  itself,  with  less  trouble  than  he  was  able  to  gain  this 
point  over  him  ;  for  many  a  time  when  my  uncle  Tohy  supposed 
the  corporal's  leg  was  at  rest,  he  would  look  back,  and  detect 
him  standing  behind  him  with  the  most  dutiful  respect :  this  bred 
more  little  squabbles  betwixt  them,  than  all  other  causes  for 
five-and-twenty  years  together  —  But  this  is  neither  here  nor 

there  —  why  do  I  mention  it  ? Ask  my  pen,  —  it  governs 

me,  —  I  govern  not  it. 

He  was  one  evening  sitting  thus  at  his  supper,  when  the  land- 
lord of  a  httle  inn  in  the  village  came  into  the  parlour,  with  an 
empty  phial  in  his  hand,  to  beg  a  glass  or  two  of  sack  ;  'Tis  for  a 
poor  gentleman,  —  I  think,  of  the  army,  said  the  landlord,  who 
has  been  taken  ill  at  my  house  four  days  ago,  and  has  never  held 
up  his  head  since,  or  had  a  desire  to  taste  anything,  till  just  now, 
that  he  has  a  fancy  for  a  glass  of  sack  and  a  thin  toast,  — —  / 
think,  says  he,  taking  his  hand  from  his  forehead,  it  would  com- 
fort ?ne. 

—  If  I  could  neither  beg,  borrow,  or  buy  such  a  thing  —  added 
the  landlord,  —  I  would  almost  steal  it  for  the  poor  gentleman, 

he  is  so  ill. 1  hope  in  God  he  will  still  mend,  continued  he, 

—  we  are  all  of  us  concerned  for  him. 

Thou  art  a  good-natured  soul,  I  will  answer  for  thee,  cried 
my  uncle  Toby;  and  thou  shalt  drink  the  poor  gentleman's 
health  in  a  glass  of  sack  thyself,  —  and  take  a  couple  of  bottles 
with  my  service,  and  tell  him  he  is  heartily  welcome  to  them, 
and  to  a  dozen  more  if  they  will  do  him  good. 

Though  I  am  persuaded,  said  my  uncle  Tohy,  as  the  landlord 
shut  the  door,  he  is  a  very  compassionate  fellow  —  Trim,  —  yet 
I  cannot  help  entertaining  a  high  opinion  of  his  guest  too  ;  there 
must  be  something  more  than  common  in  him,  that  in  so  short 

a  time  should  win  so  much  upon  the  affections  of  his  host ; 

And  of  his  whole  family,  added  the  corporal,  for  they  are  all 

concerned  for  him. Step  after  him,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  — 

do,  Trim,  —  and  ask  if  he  knows  his  name. 


LIFE  AND  OPINIONS  OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     401 
—  I  have  quite  forgot  it  truly,  said  the  landlord,  coming 


back  into  the  parlour  with  the  corporal,  —  but  I  can  ask  his  son 

again  : Has  he  a  son  with  him  then  ?  said  my  uncle  Tohy.  — 

A  boy,  rephed  the  landlord,  of  about  eleven  or  twelve  years  of 
age ;  —  but  the  poor  creature  has  tasted  almost  as  httle  as  his 
father ;  he  does  nothing  but  mourn  and  lament  for  him  night  and 
day : He  has  not  stirred  from  the  bed-side  these  two  days. 

My  uncle  Tohy  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  thrust  his 
plate  from  before  him,  as  the  landlord  gave  him  the  account ; 
and  Trim  J  without  being  ordered,  took  away,  without  saying  one 
word,  and  in  a  few  minutes  after  brought  him  his  pipe  and  tobacco. 

Stay  in  the  room  a  little,  said  my  uncle  Tohy. 

Trim  ! said  my  uncle  Tohy,  after  he  lighted  his  pipe,  and 

smoak'd  about  a  dozen  whiffs. Trim  came  in  front  of  his 

master,  and  made  his  bow ;  —  my  uncle  Tohy  smoak'd  on,  and 
said  no  more. Corporal !  said  my  uncle  Tohy the  cor- 
poral made  his  bow. My  uncle  Tohy  proceeded  no  farther, 

but   finished    his   pipe. 

Trim  !  said  my  uncle  Tohy,  I  have  a  project  in  my  head,  as 
it  is  a  bad  night,  of  wrapping  myself  up  warm  in  my  roquelaure, 

and  paying  a  visit  to  this  poor  gentleman. Your  honour's 

roquelaure,  replied  the  corporal,  has  not  once  been  had  on, 
since  the  night  before  your  honour  received  your  wound,  when 
we  mounted  guard  in  the  trenches  before  the  gate  of  St.  Nicolas ; 

and  besides,  it  is  so  cold  and  rainy  a  night,  that  what  with 

the  roquelaure,  and  what  with  the  weather,  'twill  be  enough  to 
give  your  honour  your  death,  and  bring  on  your  honour's  tor- 
ment in  your  groin.  I  fear  so,  replied  my  uncle  Tohy;  but  I 
am  not  at  rest  in  my  mind,  Trim,  since  the  account  the  landlord 

has  given  me. I  wish  I  had  not  known  so  much  of  this 

affair,  —  added  my  uncle  Tohy,  —  or  that  I  had  known  more  of 

it : How  shall  we  manage  it  ?     Leave  it,  an't  please  your 

honour,  to  me,  quoth  the  corporal; I'll  take  my  hat  and  stick 

and  go  to  the  house  and  reconnoitre,  and  act  accordingly ;  and  I 

will  bring  your  honour  a  full  account  in  an  hour. Thou  shalt 

go.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Tohy,  and  here's  a  shilHng  for  thee  to 

drink  with  his  servant. I  shall  get  it  all  out  of  him,  said  the 

corporal,  shutting  the  door. 


402  LAURENCE   STERNE 

My  uncle  Tohy  filled  his  second  pipe ;  and  had  it  not  been, 
that  he  now  and  then  wandered  from  the  point,  with  considering 
whether  it  was  not  full  as  well  to  have  the  curtain  of  the  tenaille 
a  straight  line,  as  a  crooked  one,  —  he  might  be  said  to  have 
thought  of  nothing  else  but  poor  Le  Fever  and  his  boy  the  whole 
time  he  smoaked  it. 

CHAPTER  VII 
The  Story  of  Le  Fever  Continued 

It  was  not  till  my  uncle  Tohy  had  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
third  pipe,  that  corporal  Trim  returned  from  the  inn,  and  gave 
him  the  following  account. 

I  despaired,  at  first,  said  the  corporal,  of  being  able  to  bring 
back  your  honour  any  kind  of  intelligence  concerning  the  poor 
sick  lieutenant  —  Is  he  in  the  army,  then  ?   said  my  uncle  Tohy 

He  is,  said  the  corporal And  in  what  regiment  ?   said 

my  uncle  Tohy I'll  tell  your  honour,  replied  the  corporal, 

everything  straight  forwards,  as  I  learnt  it.  —  Then,  Trim,  I'll  fill 
another  pipe,  said  my  uncle  Tohy,  and  not  interrupt  thee  till 
thou  hast  done ;  so  sit  down  at  thy  ease.  Trim,  in  the  window- 
seat,  and  begin  thy  story  again.  The  corporal  made  his  old  bow, 
which  generally  spoke  as  plain  as  a  bow  could  speak  it  —  Your 

honour  is  good: And  having  done  that,  he  sat  down,  as  he 

was  ordered,  —  and  began  the  story  to  my  uncle  Tohy  over  again 
in  pretty  near  the  same  words. 

I  despaired  at  first,  said  the  corporal,  of  being  able  to  bring 
back  any  intelligence  to  your  honour,  about  the  lieutenant  and 
his  son ;  for  when  I  asked  where  his  servant  was,  from  whom  I 
made  myself  sure  of  knowing  everything  which  was  proper  to  be 
asked,  —  That's  a  right  distinction,  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Tohy  — 
I  was  answered,  an'  please  your  honour,  that  he  had  no  servant 

with  him ; that  he  had  come  to  the  inn  with  hired  horses, 

which,  upon  finding  himself  unable  to  proceed  (to  join,  I  sup- 
pose, the  regiment),  he  had  dismissed  the  morning  after  he  came. 
—  If  I  get  better,  my  dear,  said  he,  as  he  gave  his  purse  to  his 

son  to  pay  the  man,  —  we  can  hire  horses  from  hence. But 

alas  !  the  poor  gentleman  will  never  get  from  hence,  said  the 
landlady  to  me,  —  for  I  heard  the  death-watch  all  night  long ; — — 


LIFE  AND   OPINIONS  OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     403 

and  when  he  dies,  the  youth,  his  son,  will  certainly  die  with  him, 
for  he  is  broken-hearted  already. 

I  was  hearing  this  account,  continued  the  corporal,  when  the 
youth  came  into  the  kitchen,  to  order  the  thin  toast  the  landlord 

spoke  of ; but  I  will  do  it  for  my  father  myself,  said  the 

youth. Pray  let  me  save  you  the  trouble,  young  gentleman, 

said  I,  taking  up  a  fork  for  the  purpose,  and  offering  him  my  chair 

to  sit  down  upon  by  the  fire,  whilst  I  did  it. 1  believe,  Sir, 

said  he,  very  modestly,  I  can  please  him  best  myself.  1  am 

sure,  said  I,  his  honour  will  not  like  the  toast  the  worse  for  being 

toasted  by  an  old  soldier. The  youth  took  hold  of  my  hand, 

and  instantly  burst  into  tears. Poor  youth  1   said  my  uncle 

Toby,  —  he  has  been  bred  up  from  an  infant  in  the  army,  and 
the  name  of  a  soldier.  Trim,  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  name  of 
a  friend  ;  —  I  wish  I  had  him  here. 

I  never,  in  the  longest  march,  said  the  corporal,  had  so 

great  a  mind  to  my  dinner,  as  I  had  to  cry  with  him  for  company  : 

—  What  could  be  the  matter  with  me,  an'  please  your  honour  ? 
Nothing  in  the  world.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  blowing  his 
nose,  —  but  that  thou  art  a  good-natured  fellow. 

When  I  gave  him  the  toast,  continued  the  corporal,  I  thought 
it  was  proper  to  tell  him  I  was  captain  Shandy s  servant,  and 
that  your  honour  (though  a  stranger)  was  extremely  concerned 
for  his  father ;  —  and  that  if  there  was  any  thing  in  your  house  or 

cellar (And  thou  might'st  have  added  my  purse  too,  said  my 

uncle  Toby) he  was  heartily  welcome  to  it : He  made  a 

very  low  bow  (which  was  meant  to  your  honour) ,  but  no  answer 

—  for  his  heart  was  full  —  so  he  went  up  stairs  with  the  toast ;  — 
I  warrant  you,  my  dear,  said  I,  as  I  opened  the  kitchen-door, 

your  father  will  be  well  again. Mr.    Yorick's  curate  was 

smoaking  a  pipe  by  the  kitchen  fire,  —  but  said  not  a  word  good 

or  bad  to  comfort  the  youth. I  thought  it  wrong  ;  added  the 

corporal 1  think  so  too,  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

When  the  Heutenant  had  taken  his  glass  of  sack  and  toast, 
he  felt  himself  a  little  revived,  and  sent  down  into  the  kitchen, 
to  let  me  know,  that  in  about  ten  minutes  he  should  be  glad  if  I 

would  step  up  stairs. I  beheve,  said  the  landlord,  he  is  going 

to  say  his  prayers, for  there  was  a  book  laid  upon  the  chair 


404  LAURENCE   STERNE 

by  his  bed-side,  and  as  I  shut  the  door,  I  saw  his  son  take  up  a 

cushion. 

I  thought,  said  the  curate,  that  you  gentlemen  of  the  army, 

Mr.  Trim,  never  said  your  prayers  at  all. 1  heard  the  poor 

gentleman  say  his  prayers  last  night,  said  the  landlady,  very 
devoutly,  and  with  my  own  ears,  or  I  could  not  have  beHeved 

it. Are  you  sure  of  it  ?  replied  the  curate. A  soldier,  an' 

please  your  reverence,  said  I,  prays  as  often  (of  his  own  accord) 

as  a  parson  ; and  when  he  is  fighting  for  his  king,  and  for  his 

own  life,  and  for  his  honour  too,  he  has  the  most  reason  to  pray 

to  God  of  any  one  in  the  whole  world 'Twas  well  said  of  thee, 

Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby. But  when  a  soldier,  said  I,  an' 

please  your  reverence,  has  been  standing  for  twelve  hours  to- 
gether in  the  trenches,  up  to  his  knees  in  cold  water,  —  or  en- 
gaged, said  I,  for  months  together  in  long  and  dangerous  marches  ; 

—  harassed,  perhaps,  in  his  rear  to-day ;  —  harassing  others 
to-morrow  ;  —  detached  here ;  —  countermanded  there ;  —  rest- 
ing this  night  out  upon  his  arms  ;  —  beat  up  in  his  shirt  the  next ; 

—  benumbed  in  his  joints  ;  —  perhaps  without  straw  in  his  tent 
to  kneel  on ;  —  must  say  his  prayers  Jwu^  and  when  he  can.  —  I 
believe,  said  I,  —  for  I  was  piqued,  quoth  the  corporal,  for  the 
reputation  of  the  army,  —  I  believe,  an'  please  your  reverence, 
said  I,  that  when  a  soldier  gets  time  to  pray,  —  he  prays  as 
heartily  as  a  parson,  —  though  not  with  all  his  fuss  and  hypoc- 
risy.   Thou  shouldst  not  have  said  that.  Trim,  said  my  uncle 

Toby,  —  for  God  only  knows  who  is  a  hypocrite,  and  who  is  not : 

At  the  great  and  general  review  of  us  all,  corporal,  at  the 

day  of  judgment  (and  not  till  then)  —  it  will  be  seen  who  has 
done  their  duties  in  this  world,  —  and  who  has  not ;  and  we  shall 

be  advanced.  Trim,  accordingly. I  hope  we  shall,  said  Trim. 

It  is  in  the  Scripture,  said  my  uncle  Toby;  and  I  will  shew 

it  thee  to-morrow  :  —  In  the  mean  time  we  may  depend  upon  it. 
Trim,  for  our  comfort,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  that  God  Almighty 
is  so  good  and  just  a  governor  of  the  world,  that  if  we  have  but 
done  our  duties  in  it,  —  it  will  never  be  enquired  into,  whether 

we  have  done  them  in  a  red  coat  or  a  black  one  : I  hope  not, 

said  the  corporal But  go  on.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby, 

with  thy  story. 


LIFE  AND   OPINIONS   OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     405 

When  I  went  up,  continued  the  corporal,  into  the  lieutenant's 
room,  which  I  did  not  do  till  the  expiration  of  the  ten  minutes,  — 
he  was  lying  in  his  bed  with  his  head  raised  upon  his  hand,  with 
his  elbow  upon  the  pillow,  and  a  clean  white  cambrick  handker- 
chief beside  it : The  youth  was  just  stooping  down  to  take  up 

the  cushion,  upon  which  I  supposed  he  had  been  kneeling,  —  the 
book  was  laid  upon  the  bed,  —  and,  as  he  rose,  in  taking  up  the 
cushion  with  one  hand,  he  reached  out  his  other  to  take  it  away 

at  the  same  time. Let  it  remain  there,  my  dear,  said  the 

lieutenant. 

He  did  not  offer  to  speak  to  me,  till  I  had  walked  up  close  to 
his  bed-side :  —  If  you  are  captain  Shandy's  servant,  said  he, 
you  must  present  my  thanks  to  your  master,  with  my  Httle  boy's 
thanks  along  with  them,  for  his  courtesy  to  me ;  —  if  he  was  of 
Leven's  —  said  the  lieutenant.  —  I  told  him  your  honour  was  — 
Then,  said  he,  I  served  three  campaigns  with  him  in  Flanders, 
and  remember  him,  —  but  'tis  most  likely,  as  I  had  not  the 
honour  of  any  acquaintance  with  him,  that  he  knows  nothing  of 
me. You  will  tell  him,  however,  that  the  person  his  good- 
nature has  laid  under  obligations  to  him,  is  one  Le  Fever,  a 

lieutenant  in  Angus's but  he  knows  me  not,  —  said  he,  a 

second  time,  musing  ; possibly  he  may  my  story  —  added  he 

—  pray  tell  the  captain,  I  was  the  ensign  at  Breda,  whose  wife 
was  most  unfortunately  killed  with  a  musket-shot,  as  she  lay 

in  my  arms  in  my  tent. I  remember  the  story,  an't  please 

your  honour,  said  I,  very  well. Do  you  so  ?  said  he,  wiping 

his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief,  —  then  well  may  I.  —  In  saying 
this,  he  drew  a  little  ring  out  of  his  bosom,  which  seemed  tied 

with  a  black  ribband  about  his  neck,  and  kiss'd  it  twice 

Here,  Billy,  said  he, the  boy  flew  across  the  room  to  the 

bed-side,  —  and  falling  down  upon  his  knee,  took  the  ring  in  his 
hand,  and  kissed  it  too,  —  then  kissed  his  father,  and  sat  down 
upon  the  bed  and  wept. 

I  wish,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  a  deep  sigh,  —  I  wish,  Trim, 
I  was  asleep. 

Your  honour,  repHed  the  corporal,  is  too  much  concerned ;  — 

shall  I  pour  your  honour  out  a  glass  of  sack  to  your  pipe  ? 

Do,  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby. 


4o6  LAURENCE   STERNE 

I  remember,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  sighing  again,  the  story  of 
the  ensign  and  his  wife,  with  a  circumstance  his  modesty  omitted  ; 

—  and  particularly  well  that  he,  as  well  as  she,  upon  some  ac- 
count or  other  (I  forget  what)  was  universally  pitied  by  the 
whole  regiment ;  —  but  finish  the  story  thou  art  upon :  —  'Tis 
finished  already,  said  the  corporal,  —  for  I  could  stay  no  longer, 

—  so  wished  his  honour  a  good  night ;  young  Le  Fever  rose  from 
off  the  bed,  and  saw  me  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs ;  and  as  we 
went  down  together,  told  me,  they  had  come  from  Ireland,  and 

were  on  their  route  to  join  the  regiment  in  Flanders. But 

alas  !  said  the  corporal,  —  the  lieutenant's  last  day's  march  is 
over.  —  Then  what  is  to  become  of  his  poor  boy  ?  cried  my 
uncle  Tohy. 

CHAPTER   VIII 
The  Story  of  Le  Fever  Continued 

Thou  hast  left  this  matter  short,  said  my  uncle  Tohy  to  the 

corporal,  as  he  was  putting  him  to  bed, and  I  will  tell  thee 

in  what.  Trim. In  the  first  place,  when  thou  madest  an  offer 

of  my  services  to  Le  Fever, as  sickness  and  travelling  are 

both  expensive,  and  thou  knowest  he  was  but  a  poor  lieutenant, 
with  a  son  to  subsist  as  well  as  himself  out  of  his  pay,  —  that 
thou  didst  not  make  an  offer  to  him  of  my  purse ;  because,  had 
he  stood  in  need,  thou  knowest.  Trim,  he  had  been  as  welcome  to 

it  as  myself. Your  honour  knows,  said  the  corporal,  I  had 

no  orders ; True,  quoth  my  uncle  Tohy,  —  thou  didst  very 

right,  Trim,  as  a  soldier,  —  but  certainly  very  wrong  as  a  man. 

In  the  second  place,  for  which,  indeed,  thou  hast  the  same 

excuse,  continued  my  uncle  Tohy, when  thou  offeredst  him 

whatever  was  in  my  house, thou  shouldst  have  offered  him 

my  house  too : A  sick  brother  officer  should  have  the  best 

quarters.  Trim,  and  if  we  had  him  with  us,  —  we  could  tend  and 

look  to  him  : Thou  art  an  excellent  nurse  thyself.  Trim,  — 

and  what  with  thy  care  of  him,  and  the  old  woman's,  and  his 
boy's,  and  mine  together,  we  might  recruit  him  again  at  once, 
and  set  him  upon  his  legs. 

In  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  added  my  uncle  Tohy, 


LIFE  AND   OPINIONS  OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     407 

smiling, he  might  march. He  will  never  march  ;    an' 

please  your  honour,  in  this  world,  said  the  corporal : He 

will  march ;    said  my  uncle  Tohy,  rising  up,  from  the  side  of  the 

bed,  with  one  shoe  off  : An'  please  your  honour,  said  the 

corporal,  he  will  never  march  but  to  his  grave : He  shall 

march,  cried  my  uncle  Toby,  marching  the  foot  which  had  a  shoe 
on,  though  without  advancing  an  inch,  —  he  shall  march  to  his 

regiment. He  cannot  stand  it,  said  the  corporal ; He 

shall  be  supported,  said  my  uncle  Tohy;  He'll  drop  at  last, 

said  the  corporal,  and  what  will  become  of  his  boy  ? He 

shall  not  drop,  said  my  uncle  Tohy,  firmly. A-well-o'-day, 

—  do  what  we  can  for  him,  said  Trim,  maintaining  his  point,  — 

the  poor  soul  will  die : He  shall  not  die,  by  G — ,  cried  my 

uncle  Tohy. 

—  The  ACCUSING  SPIRIT,  which  flew  up  to  heaven's  chancery 
with  the  oath,  blush'd  as  he  gave  it  in ;  —  and  the  recording 
ANGEL,  as  he  wrote  it  down,  dropp'd  a  tear  upon  the  word,  and 
blotted  it  out  for  ever. 

CHAPTER   IX 
My  uncle  Tohy  went  to  his  bureau,  —  put  his  purse  into 


his  breeches  pocket,  and  having  ordered  the  corporal  to  go  early 
in  the  morning  for  a  physician,  —  he  went  to  bed,  and  fell  asleep. 

CHAPTER  X 

The  Story  of  Le  Fever  Continued 

The  sun  looked  bright  the  morning  after,  to  every  eye  in  the 
village  but  Le  Fever's  and  his  afflicted  son's ;   the  hand  of  death 

press'd  heavy  upon  his  eye-lids, and  hardly  could  the  wheel 

at  the  cistern  turn  round  its  circle,  —  when  my  uncle  Tohy,  who 
had  rose  up  an  hour  before  his  wonted  time,  entered  the  lieu- 
tenant's room,  and  without  preface  or  apology,  sat  himself 
down  upon  the  chair  by  the  bed-side,  and,  independently  of  all 
modes  and  customs,  opened  the  curtain  in  the  manner  an  old 
friend  and  brother  officer  would  have  done  it,  and  asked  him 
how  he  did,  —  how  he  had  rested  in  the  night,  —  what  was  his 
complaint,  —  where  was  his  pain,  —  and  what  he  could  do  to  help 


4o8  LAURENCE   STERNE 

him  : and  without  giving  him  time  to  answer  any  one  of  the 

enquiries,  went  on,  and  told  him  of  the  Httle  plan  which  he  had 

been  concerting  with  the  corporal  the  night  before  for  him. 

You  shall  go  home  directly,  Le  Fever,  said  my  uncle  Toby, 


to  my  house,  —  and  we'll  send  for  a  doctor  to  see  what's  the 
matter,  —  and  we'll  have  an  apothecary,  —  and  the  corporal 
shall  be  your  nurse; and  I'll  be  your  servant,  Le  Fever. 

There  was  a  frankness  in  my  uncle  Toby,  —  not  the  ejject  of 
famiharity,  —  but  the  cause  of  it,  —  which  let  you  at  once  into 
his  soul,  and  shewed  you  the  goodness  of  his  nature ;  to  this, 
there  was  something  in  his  looks,  and  voice,  and  manner,  super- 
added, which  eternally  beckoned  to  the  unfortunate  to  come  and 
take  shelter  under  him ;  so  that  before  my  uncle  Toby  had  half 
finished  the  kind  offers  he  was  making  to  the  father,  had  the 
son  insensibly  pressed  up  close  to  his  knees,  and  had  taken  hold 

of  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  was  pulling  it  towards  him. 

The  blood  and  spirits  of  Le  Fever,  which  were  waxing  cold  and 
slow  within  him,  and  were  retreating  to  their  last  citadel,  the 
heart  —  rallied  back,  —  the  film  forsook  his  eyes  for  a  moment, 
—  he  looked  up  wishfully  in  my  uncle  Tobys  face,  —  then  cast 

a  look  upon  his  boy, and  that  liga?nent,  fine  as  it  was,  — 

was  never  broken. 

Nature  instantly  ebb'd  again,  —  the  film  returned  to  its  place, 

the  pulse  fluttered stopp'd went  on throbb'd 

stopp'd  again moved stopp'd shall  I  go  on  ? 

No. 


BOOK   VI.     CHAPTER  XVIII 
[A  Dialogue  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shandy] 

We  should  begin,  said  my  father,  turning  himself  half  round 
in  bed,  and  shifting  his  pillow  a  little  towards  my  mother's, 

as  he  opened  the  debate We  should  begin  to  think,  Mrs. 

Shandy,  of  putting  this  boy  into  breeches. 

We  should  so,  —  said  my  mother. We  defer  it,  my  dear, 

quoth  my  father,  shamefully. 

I  think  we  do,  Mr.  Shandy,  —  said  my  mother. 

Not  but  the  child  looks  extremely  well,  said  my  father 

in  his  vests  and  tunicks. 


LIFE  AND   OPINIONS  OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     409 

He    does    look    very    well    in     them,  ■ —  replied     my 


mother. 


And  for  that  reason  it  would  be  almost  a  sin,  added  my 

father,  to  take  him  out  of  'em. 


It  would  so,  —  said  my  mother  : But  indeed  he  is 

growing  a  very  tall  lad,  —  rejoined  my  father. 

He    is    very    tall    for     his     age,     indeed,  —  said     my 

mother. 


I  can  not  (making  two  syllables  of  it)  imagine,  quoth  my 

father,  who  the  deuce  he  takes  after.  — — 


I  cannot  conceive,  for  my  life,  —  said  my  mother. 

Humph  ! said  my  father. 

(The  dialogue  ceased  for  a  moment.) 

I  am  very  short  myself,  —  continued  my  father  gravely. 


You  are  very  short,  Mr.  Shandy,  —  said  my  mother. 

Humph  !  quoth  my  father  to  himself,  a  second  time :  in 
muttering  which,  he  plucked  his  pillow  a  little  further  from  my 
mother's  —  and  turning  about  again,  there  was  an  end  of  the 
debate  for  three  minutes  and  a  half. 

When  he  gets  these  breeches  made,  cried  my  father  in  a 

higher  tone,  he'll  look  like  a  beast  in  'em. 

He  will  be  very  awkward  in  them  at  first,  replied  my 
mother. 

— —  And  'twill  be  lucky,  if  that's  the  worst  on't,  added  my 


father. 

It  will  be  very  lucky,  answered  my  mother. 

I  suppose,  replied  my  father,  —  making  some  pause  first,  — • 
he'll  be  exactly  like  other  people's  children. 

Exactly,  said  my  mother. 

Though  I  shall  be  sorry  for  that,  added  my  father :  and 


so  the  debate  stopp'd  again. 

— ■ —  They  should  be  of  leather,  said  my  father,  turning  him 
about  again.  — ■ 

They  will  last  him,  said  my  mother,  the  longest. 

But  he  can  have  no  linings  to  'em,  replied  my  father. 

He  cannot,  said  my  mother. 

'Twere  better  to  have  them  of  fustian,  quoth  my  father. 

Nothing  can  be  better,  quoth  my  mother. 


4IO  LAURENCE  STERNE 

—  Except  dimity,  —  replied  my  father  :  — ■ —  'Tis  best  of  all, 
—  replied  my  mother. 

One  must  not  give  him  his  death,  however,  —  interrupted 

my  father. 

By  no  means,  said  my  mother  : and  so  the  dialogue  stood 

still  again. 

I  am  resolved,  however,  quoth  my  father,  breaking  silence  the 
fourth  time,  he  shall  have  no  pockets  in  them.  — 

There  is  no  occasion  for  any,  said  my  mother. 

I  mean  in  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  —  cried  my  father. 

I  mean  so  too,  —  replied  my  mother. 

Though  if  he  gets  a  gig  or  top Poor  souls  !    it  is  a 

crown  and  a  sceptre  to  them,  —  they  should  have  where  to  se- 
cure it. 

Order  it  as  you  please,  Mr.  Shandy,  replied  my  mother. 

But  don't  you  think  it  right  ?  added  my  father,  pressing 

the  point  home  to  her. 

Perfectly,  said  my  mother,  if  it  pleases  you,  Mr.  Shandy. 

There's  for  you  !    cried  my  father,  losing  temper 

Pleases  me  ! You  never  will  distinguish,  Mrs.  Shandy,  nor 

shall  I  ever  teach  you  to  do  it,  betwixt  a  point  of  pleasure  and 
a  point  of  convenience. 


BOOK   VI.     CHAPTER  XXXIII 
[In  which  we  are  given  a  Glimpse  of  the  Author's  Method] 

I  TOLD  the  Christian  reader I  say  Christian hoping 

he  is  one and  if  he  is  not,  I  am  sorry  for  it and  only 

beg  he  will  consider  the  matter  with  himself,  and  not  lay  the 
blame  entirely  upon  this  book 

I  told  him.  Sir for  in  good  truth,  when  a  man  is  telling 

a  story  in  the  strange  way  I  do  mine,  he  is  obliged  continually 
to  be  going  backwards  and  forwards  to  keep  all  tight  together 

in  the  reader's  fancy which,  for  my  own  part,  if  I  did  not 

take  heed  to  do  more  than  at  first,  there  is  so  much  unfixed  and 
equivocal  matter  starting  up,  with  so  many  breaks  and  gaps 
in  it,  —  and  so  little  service  do  the  stars  afford,  which,  neverthe- 
less, I  hang  up  in  some  of  the  darkest  passages,  knowing  that 


LIFE  AND   OPINIONS  OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     411 

the  world  is  apt  to  lose  its  way,  with  all  the  lights  the  sun  itself 

at   noon-day   can   give   it and   now   you    see,    I    am    lost 

myself !  — • 

But  'tis  my  father's  fault ;  and  whenever  my  brains  come 


to  be  dissected,  you  will  perceive,  without  spectacles,  that  he  has 
left  a  large  uneven  thread,  as  you  sometimes  see  in  an  unsaleable 
piece  of  cambrick,  running  along  the  whole  length  of  the  web, 
and  so  untowardly,  you  cannot  so  much  as  cut  out  a  *  *,  (here 
I  hang  up  a  couple  of  lights  again) or  a  fillet,  or  a  thumb- 
stall,  but  it  is  seen  or  felt. 

Quanta  id  diligentius  in  liberis  procreandis  cavendum,  sayeth 
Cardan.  All  which  being  considered,  and  that  you  see  'tis 
morally  impracticable  for  me  to  wind  this  round  to  where  I 
set  out 

I  begin  the  chapter  over  again. 

BOOK   VII.     CHAPTER   XXXII 

[The  Story  of  the  Ass] 
'Twas  by  a  poor  ass,  who  had  just  turned  in  with  a  couple 


of  large  panniers  upon  his  back,  to  collect  eleemosynary  turnip- 
tops  and  cabbage-leaves ;  and  stood  dubious,  with  his  two  fore- 
feet on  the  inside  of  the  threshold,  and  with  his  two  hinder  feet 
towards  the  street,  as  not  knowing  very  well  whether  he  was  to 
go  in  or  no. 

Now,  'tis  an  animal  (be  in  what  hurry  I  may)  I  cannot  bear  to 

strike there  is  a  patient  endurance  of  sufferings,  wrote  so 

unaffectedly  in  his  looks  and  carriage,  which  pleads  so  mightily 
for  him,  that  it  always  disarms  me ;  and  to  that  degree,  that  I 
do  not  like  to  speak  unkindly  to  him  :  on  the  contrary,  meet  him 
where  I  will  —  whether  in  town  or  country  —  in  cart  or  under 
panniers  —  whether  in  liberty  or  bondage I  have  ever  some- 
thing civil  to  say  to  him  on  my  part ;    and  as  one  word  begets 

another  (if  he  has  as  little  to  do  as  I) I  generally  fall  into 

conversation  with  him ;  and  surely  never  is  my  imagination  so 
busy  as  in  framing  his  responses  from  the  etchings  of  his  counte- 
nance —  and  where  those  carry  me  not  deep  enough in  flying 

from  my  own  heart  into  his,  and  seeing  what  is  natural  for  an 


412  LAURENCE   STERNE 

ass  to  think  —  as  well  as  a  man,  upon  the  occasion.  In  truth, 
it  is  the  only  creature  of  all  the  classes  of  beings  below  me,  with 
whom  I  can  do  this :  for  parrots,  jackdaws,  &c.  —  I  never  ex- 
change a  word  with  them nor  with  the  apes,  &c.,  for  pretty 

near  the  same  reason ;  they  act  by  rote,  as  the  others  speak  by 
it,  and  equally  make  me  silent :  nay  my  dog  and  my  cat,  though 

I  value  them  both (and  for  my  dog  he  would  speak  if  he 

could)  —  yet  somehow  or  other,  they  neither  of  them  possess 
the  talents  for  conversation I  can  make  nothing  of  a  dis- 
course with  them,  beyond  the  proposition,  the  reply,  and  re- 
joinder, which  terminated  my  father's  and  my  mother's  conver- 
sations, in  his  beds  of  justice and  those  utter'd there's 

an  end  of  the  dialogue 

—  But  with  an  ass,  I  can  commune  for  ever. 

Come,  Honesty  !  said  I, seeing  it  was  impracticable  to 

pass  betwixt  him  and  the  gate art  thou  for  coming  in,  or 

going  out  ? 

The  ass  twisted  his  head  round  to  look  up  the  street 

Well  —  replied  I  —  we'll  wait  a  minute  for  thy  driver : 

He  turned  his  head  thoughtful  about,  and  looked  wist- 
fully the  opposite  way 

I  understand  thee  perfectly,  answered  I If  thou  takest 

a  wrong  step  in  this  affair,  he  will  cudgel  thee  to  death Well ! 

a  minute  is  but  a  minute,  and  if  it  saves  a  fellow-creature  a 
drubbing,  it  shall  not  be  set  down  as  ill  spent. 

He  was  eating  the  stem  of  an  artichoke  as  this  discourse  went 
on,  and  in  the  little  peevish  contentions  of  nature  betwixt  hunger 
and  unsavouriness,  had  dropt  it  out  of  his  mouth  half  a  dozen 

times,  and  pick'd  it  up  again God  help  thee,  Jack !  said  I, 

thou  hast  a  bitter  breakfast  on't  —  and  many  a  bitter  day's 
labour,  —  and  many  a  bitter  blow,  I  fear,  for  its  wages  — —  'tis 

all  —  all  bitterness  to  thee,  whatever  hfe  is  to  others. And 

now  thy  mouth,  if  one  knew  the  truth  of  it,  is  as  bitter,  I  dare 
say,  as  soot  —  (for  he  had  cast  aside  the  stem)  and  thou  hast  not 
a  friend  perhaps  in  all  this  world,  that  will  give  thee  a  macaroon. 

In  saying  this,  I  pull'd  out  a  paper  of  'em,  which  I  had  just 

purchased,  and  gave  him  one  —  and  at  this  moment  that  I  am 
telling  it,  my  heart  smites  me,  that  there  was  more  of  pleasantry 


LIFE  AND   OPINIONS  OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     413 

in  the  conceit,  of  seeing  how  an  ass  would  eat  a  macaroon 


than  of  benevolence  in  giving  him  one,  which  presided  in  the  act. 
When  the  ass  had  eaten  his  macaroon,  I  press'd  him  to  come 

in  —  the  poor  beast  was  heavy'  loaded his  legs  seem'd  to 

tremble  under  him he  hung  rather  backwards,  and  as  I 

pull'd  at  his  halter,  it  broke  short  in  my  hand he  look'd  up 

pensive  in  my  face  —  "Don't  thrash  me  with  it  —  but  if  you 
will,  you  may" If  I  do,  said  I,  I'll  be  d d. 

BOOK   VIII.     CHAPTER  XXIV 
[My  Uncle  Toby  and  the  Widow  Wadman] 

I  AM  half  distracted,  captain  Shandy,  said  Mrs.  Wadman, 


holding  up  her  cambrick  handkerchief  to  her  left  eye,  as  she 

approach'd  the  door  of  my  uncle  Toby's  sentry-box a  mote 

or  sand or  something I  know  not  what,  has  got 

into  this  eye  of  mine do  look  into  it it  is  not  in  the 

white  — 

In  saying  which,  Mrs.  Wadman  edged  herself  close  in  beside 
my  uncle  Tohy,  and  squeezing  herself  down  upon  the  corner  of 
his  bench,  she  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  doing  it  without 
rising  up  — —  Do  look  into  it  —  said  she. 

Honest  soul !  thou  didst  look  into  it  with  as  much  innocency 
of  heart,  as  ever  child  look'd  into  a  raree-shew-box ;  and  'twere 
as  much  a  sin  to  have  hurt  thee. 

If  a  man  will  be  peeping  of  his  own  accord  into   things 

of  that  nature I've  nothing  to  say  to  it 


My  uncle  Tohy  never  did :  and  I  will  answer  for  him,  that  he 
would  have  sat  quietly  upon  a  sofa  from  June  to  January  (which, 
you  know,  takes  in  both  the  hot  and  cold  months),  with  an  eye 
as  fine  as  the  Thracian  Rodope's  beside  him,  without  being  able 
to  tell,  whether  it  was  a  black  or  blue  one. 

The  difficulty  was  to  get  my  uncle  Toby  to  look  at  one  at  all. 

'Tis  surmounted.     And 

I  see  him  yonder  with  his  pipe  pendulous  in  his  hand,  and  the 
ashes  falling  out  of  it  —  looking  —  and  looking  —  then  rubbing 
his  eyes  —  and  looking  again,  with  twice  the  good-nature  that 
ever  Gallileo  look'd  for  a  spot  in  the  sun. 


414  LAURENCE   STERNE 

In  vain  !   for  by  all  the  powers  which  animate  the  organ 


Widow  Wadman's  left  eye  shines  this  moment  as  lucid  as 

her  right there  is  neither  mote,  or  sand,  or  dust,  or  chaff, 

or  speck,  or  particle  of  opake  matter  floating  in  it  —  There  is 
nothing,  my  dear  paternal  uncle  !  but  one  lambent  dehcious 
fire,  furtively  shooting  out  from  every  part  of  it,  in  all  directions, 

into  thine ■ 

If  thou  lookest,  uncle  Toby,  in  search  of  this  mote  one 


moment  longer thou  art  undone. 

CHAPTER  XXV 

An  eye  is  for  all  the  world  exactly  like  a  cannon,  in  this  respect ; 
That  it  is  not  so  much  the  eye  or  the  cannon,  in  themselves,  as 

it  is  the  carriage  of  the  eye and  the  carriage  of  the  cannon, 

by  which  both  the  one  and  the  other  are  enabled  to  do  so  much 
execution.  I  don't  think  the  comparison  a  bad  one  ;  However, 
as  'tis  made  and  placed  at  the  head  of  the  chapter,  as  much  for 
use  as  ornament,  all  I  desire  in  return  is,  that  whenever  I  speak 
of  Mrs.  W adman's  eyes  (except  once  in  the  next  period),  that 
you  keep  it  in  your  fancy. 

I  protest.  Madam,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  I  can  see  nothing  what- 
ever in  your  eye. 

It  is  not  in  the  white ;  said  Mrs.  W adman :  my  uncle  Toby 
look'd  with  might  and  main  into  the  pupil 

Now  of  all  the  eyes  which  ever  were  created from  your 

own,  Madam,  up  to  those  of  Venus  herself,  which  certainly  were 

as  venereal  a  pair  of  eyes  as  ever  stood  in  a  head there  never 

was  an  eye  of  them  all,  so  fitted  to  rob  my  uncle  Toby  of  his 

repose,  as  the  very  eye,  at  which  he  was  looking it  was  not, 

Madam,  a  roHing  eye a  romping  or  a  wanton  one  —  nor  was 

it  an  eye  sparkling  —  petulant  or  imperious  —  of  high  claims  and 
terrifying  exactions,  which  would  have  curdled  at  once  that 
milk  of  human  nature,  of  which  my  uncle  Toby  was  made  up 

but  'twas  an  eye  full  of  gentle  salutations and  soft 

responses speaking not  like  the  trumpet  stop  of  some 

ill-made  organ,  in  which  many  an  eye  I  talk  to,  holds  coarse 
converse but  whispering  soft  — ■ —  like  the  last  low  accent  of 


LIFE  AND   OPINIONS   OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     415 

an  expiring  saint "How  can  you  live  comfortless,  captain 

Shandy,  and  alone,  without  a  bosom  to  lean  your  head  on or 

trust  your  cares  to  ?" 

It  was  an  eye 

But  I  shall  be  in  love  with  it  myself,  if  I  say  another  word 
about  it. 

It  did  my  uncle  Tobys  business. 

CHAPTER   XXWI 

The  world  is  ashamed  of  being  virtuous My  uncle  Toby 

knew  little  of  the  world ;  and  therefore  when  he  felt  he  was  in 
love  with  widow  Wadman,  he  had  no  conception  that  the  thing 
was  any  more  to  be  made  a  mystery  of,  than  if  Mrs.  Wadman 
had  given  him  a  cut  with  a  gap'd  knife  across  his  finger :  Had 
it  been  otherwise  — —  yet  as  he  ever  look'd  upon  Trim  as  a 
humble  friend ;    and  saw  fresh  reasons  every  day  of  his  life,  to 

treat  him  as  such it  would  have  made  no  variation  in  the 

manner  in  which  he  informed  him  of  the  affair. 

"I  am  in  love,  corporal  !"   quoth  my  uncle  Toby. 

BOOK   IX.     CHAPTER  XXIV 

[The  Story  of  Maria] 

For  my  uncle  Toby's  amours  running  all  the  way  in  my 

head,  they  had  the  same  effect  upon  me  as  if  they  had  been  my 

own I  was  in  the  most  perfect  state  of  bounty  and  good-will ; 

and  felt  the  kindliest  harmony  vibrating  within  me,  with  every 
oscillation  of  the  chaise  alike ;  so  that  whether  the  roads  were 
rough  or  smooth,  it  made  no  difference ;  everything  I  saw  or 
had  to  do  with,  touch 'd  upon  some  secret  spring  either  of  senti- 
ment or  rapture. 

They  were  the  sweetest  notes  I  ever  heard ;  and  I  in- 
stantly let  down  the  fore-glass  to  hear  them  more  distinctly 

'Tis  Maria;    said  the  postillion,  observing  I  was  listening 

Poor  Maria,  continued  he  (leaning  his  body  on  one  side  to  let  me 
see  her,  for  he  was  in  a  hne  betwixt  us),  is  sitting  upon  a  bank 
playing  her  vespers  upon  her  pipe,  with  her  little  goat  beside 
her. 


4i6  LAURENCE   STERNE 

The  young  fellow  utter'd  this  with  an  accent  and  a  look  so 
perfectly  in  tune  to  a  feeling  heart,  that  I  instantly  made  a  vow, 
I  would  give  him  a  four-and-twenty  sous  piece,  when  I  got  to 
Moulins 


And  who  is  poor  Maria  ?  said  I. 

The  love  and  piety  of  all  the  villages  around  us ;    said  the 

postilUon it  is  but  three  years  ago,  that  the  sun  did  not 

shine  upon  so  fair,  so  quick-witted  and  amiable  a  maid ;  and 
better  fate  did  Maria  deserve,  than  to  have  her  Banns  forbid, 
by  the  intrigues  of  the  curate  of  the  parish  who  pubHshed 
them 

He  was  going  on,  when  Maria,  who  had  made  a  short  pause, 

put  the  pipe  to  her  mouth,  and  began  the  air  again they 

were  the  same  notes  ; yet  were  ten  times  sweeter  :   It  is  the 

evening  service  to  the  Virgin,  said  the  young  man but  who 

has  taught  her  to  play  it  —  or  how  she  came  by  her  pipe,  no  one 
knows ;  we  think  that  heaven  has  assisted  her  in  both ;  for  ever 
since  she  has  been  unsettled  in  her  mind,  it  seems  her  only  con- 
solation — ■ —  she  has  never  once  had  the  pipe  out  of  her  hand, 
but  plays  that  service  upon  it  almost  night  and  day. 

The  postilHon  delivered  this  with  so  much  discretion  and 
natural  eloquence,  that  I  could  not  help  decyphering  some- 
thing in  his  face  above  his  condition,  and  should  have  sifted 
out  his  history,  had  not  poor  Maria  taken  such  full  possession 
of  me. 

We  had  got  up  by  this  time  almost  to  the  bank  where  Maria 
was  sitting :  she  was  in  a  thin  white  jacket,  with  her  hair,  all 
but  two  tresses,  drawn  up  into  a  silk-net,  with  a  few  oHve  leaves 
twisted  a  little  fantastically  on  one  side  — ■ —  she  was  beautiful ; 
and  if  ever  I  felt  the  full  force  of  an  honest  heart-ache,  it  was  the 
moment  I  saw  her 

God  help  her  !   poor  damsel !   above  a  hundred  masses, 

said  the  postillion,  have  been  said  in  the  several  parish  churches 

and  convents  around,  for  her, but  without  effect ;   we  have 

still  hopes,  as  she  is  sensible  for  short  intervals,  that  the  Virgin 
at  last  will  restore  her  to  herself ;  but  her  parents,  who  know  her 
best,  are  hopeless  upon  that  score,  and  think  her  senses  are  lost 
for  ever. 


LIFE  AND  OPINIONS  OF  TRISTRAM   SHANDY     417 

As  the  postillion  spoke  this,  Maria  made  a  cadence  so  melan- 
choly, so  tender  and  querulous,  that  I  sprung  out  of  the  chaise 
to  help  her,  and  found  myself  sitting  betwixt  her  and  her  goat 
before  I  relapsed  from  my  enthusiasm. 

Maria  look'd  wistfully  for  some  time  at  me,  and  then  at  her 

goat and  then  at  me and  then  at  her  goat  again,  and 

so  on,  alternately 

Well,  Maria,  said  I  softly  — —  What  resemblance  do  you 

find? 

I  do  entreat  the  candid  reader  to  beheve  me,  that  it  was  from 

the  humblest  conviction  of  what  a  Beast  man  is, that  I 

asked  the  question ;  and  that  I  would  not  have  let  fallen  an 
unseasonable  pleasantry  in  the  venerable  presence  of  Misery,  to 

be  entitled  to  all  the  wit  that  ever  Rabelais  scatter'd and 

yet  I  own  my  heart  smote  me,  and  that  I  so  smarted  at  the  very 
idea  of  it,  that  I  swore  I  would  set  up  for  Wisdom,  and  utter  grave 

sentences  the  rest  of  my  days and  never  —  never  attempt 

again  to  commit  mirth  with  man,  woman,  or  child,  the  longest 
day  I  had  to  live. 

As  for  writing  nonsense  to  them 1   believe,   there  was 

a  reserve  —  but  that  I  leave  to  the  world. 

Adieu,  Maria !  —  adieu,  poor  hapless  damsel ! some  time, 

but  not  now,  I  may  hear  thy  sorrows  from  thy  own  Ups but 

I  was  deceived ;  for  that  moment  she  took  her  pipe  and  told 
me  such  a  tale  of  woe  with  it,  that  I  rose  up,  and  with  broken 
and  irregular  steps  walk'd  softly  to  my  chaise. 

What  an  excellent  inn  at  Moulins  ! 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER 
TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 

To  Sir  Watkin  Phillips,  Bart.,  of  Jesus  College,  Oxon. 

Dear  Phillips, 
As  I  have  nothing  more  at  heart  than  to  convince  you  I  am  in- 
capable of  forgetting  or  neglecting  the  friendship  I  made  at  col- 
lege, I  now  begin  that  correspondence  by  letters  which  you  and  I 
agreed,  at  parting,  to  cultivate.  I  begin  it  sooner  than  I  in- 
tended, that  you  may  have  it  in  your  power  to  refute  any  idle 
reports  which  may  be  circulated  to  my  prejudice  at  Oxford, 
touching  a  foolish  quarrel,  in  which  I  have  been  involved  on 
account  of  my  sister,  who  had  been  some  time  settled  here  in  a 
boarding-school.  When  I  came  hither  with  my  uncle  and  aunt 
(who  are  our  guardians)  to  fetch  her  away,  I  found  her  a  fine,  tall 
girl,  of  seventeen,  with  an  agreeable  person ;  but  remarkably 
simple,  and  quite  ignorant  of  the  world.  This  disposition,  and 
want  of  experience,  had  exposed  her  to  the  addresses  of  a  person 
(I  know  not  what  to  call  him)  who  had  seen  her  at  a  play,  and, 
with  a  confidence  and  dexterity  peculiar  to  himself,  found  means 
to  be  recommended  to  her  acquaintance.  It  was  by  the  greatest 
accident  I  intercepted  one  of  his  letters.  As  it  was  my  duty  to 
stifle  this  correspondence  in  its  birth,  I  made  it  my  business  to 
find  him  out,  and  tell  him  very  freely  my  sentiments  of  the  matter. 
The  spark  did  not  like  the  style  I  used,  and  behaved  with  abun- 
dance of  mettle.  Though  his  rank  in  life  (which,  by  the  by,  I  am 
ashamed  to  declare)  did  not  entitle  him  to  much  deference ;  yet, 
as  his  behaviour  was  remarkably  spirited,  I  admitted  him  to  the 
privilege  of  a  gentleman ;  and  something  might  have  happened, 
had  not  we  been  prevented.  In  short,  the  business  took  air,  I 
know  not  how,  and  made  abundance  of  noise.  Recourse  was 
had  to  justice  :  I  was  obliged  to  give  my  word  and  honour,  &c. ; 
and  to-morrow  morning  we  set  out  for  Bristol  Wells,  where  I 

418 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  419 

expect  to  hear  from  you  by  the  return  of  the  post.  I  have  got 
into  a  family  of  originals,  whom  I  may  one  day  attempt  to  de- 
scribe for  your  amusement.  My  aunt,  Mrs.  Tabitha  Bramble,  is 
a  maiden  of  forty-five,  exceedingly  starched,  vain,  and  ridiculous. 
My  uncle  is  an  odd  kind  of  humorist,  always  on  the  fret,  and  so 
unpleasant  in  his  manner,  that,  rather  than  be  obliged  to  keep 
him  company,  I'd  resign  all  claim  to  the  inheritance  of  his  estate. 
Indeed,  his  being  tortured  by  the  gout  may  have  soured  his 
temper ;  and  perhaps  I  may  like  him  better  on  farther  acquaint- 
ance. Certain  it  is,  all  his  servants  and  neighbours  in  the  coun- 
try are  fond  of  him,  even  to  a  degree  of  enthusiasm  ;  the  reason 
of  which  I  cannot  as  yet  comprehend.  Remember  me  to  Griffy 
Price,  Gwyn,  Mansel,  Basset,  and  all  the  rest  of  my  old  Cam- 
brian companions.  Salute  the  bed-maker  in  my  name  ;  give  my 
service  to  the  cook ;  and  pray  take  care  of  poor  Ponto,  for  the 
sake  of  his  old  master  ;   who  is,  and  ever  will  be, 

Dear  Phillips, 
Your  affectionate  friend,  and  humble  servant, 
Gloucester,  April  2.  Jer.  Melford. 

To  Mrs.  Jermyn,  at  her  House  in  Gloucester 

Dear  Madam, 
Having  no  mother  of  my  own,  I  hope  you  will  give  me  leave 
to  disburden  my  poor  heart  to  you,  who  have  always  acted  the 
part  of  a  kind  parent  to  me,  ever  since  I  was  put  under  your  care. 
Indeed,  and  indeed,  my  worthy  governess  may  believe  me,  when 
I  assure  her,  that  I  never  harboured  a  thought  that  was  otherwise 
than  virtuous ;  and,  if  God  will  give  me  grace,  I  shall  never  be- 
have so  as  to  cast  a  reflection  on  the  care  you  have  taken  in  my 
education.  I  confess  I  have  given  just  cause  of  offence,  by  my 
want  of  prudence  and  experience.  I  ought  not  to  have  listened  to 
what  the  young  man  said ;  and  it  was  my  duty  to  have  told  you 
all  that  passed ;  but  I  was  ashamed  to  mention  it :  and  then  he 
behaved  so  modest  and  respectful,  and  seemed  to  be  so  melan- 
choly and  timorous,  that  I  could  not  find  in  my  heart  to  do  any 
thing  that  should  make  him  miserable  and  desperate.  As  for 
famiUarities,  I  do  declare  I  never  once  allowed  him  the  favour  of 


420  TOBIAS    SMOLLET 

a  salute ;  and  as  to  the  few  letters  that  passed  between  us,  they 
are  all  in  my  uncle's  hands,  and  I  hope  they  contain  nothing  con- 
trary to  innocence  and  honour.  I  am  still  persuaded  that  he  is 
not  what  he  appears  to  be  :  but  time  will  discover.  Meanwhile, 
I  will  endeavour  to  forget  a  connexion  which  is  so  displeasing  to 
my  family.  I  have  cried  without  ceasing,  and  have  not  tasted 
any  thing  but  tea,  since  I  was  hurried  away  from  you ;  nor  did 
I  once  close  my  eyes  for  three  nights  running.  My  aunt  con- 
tinues to  chide  me  severely  when  we  are  by  ourselves;  but  I 
hope  to  soften  her  in  time  by  humihty  and  submission.  My 
uncle,  who  was  so  dreadfully  passionate  in  the  beginning,  has 
been  moved  by  my  tears  and  distress,  and  is  now  all  tenderness 
and  compassion ;  and  my  brother  is  reconciled  to  me,  on  my 
promising  to  break  off  all  correspondence  with  that  unfortunate 
youth :  but,  notwithstanding  all  their  indulgence,  I  shall  have 
no  peace  of  mind  till  I  know  my  dear  and  ever-honoured  governess 
has  forgiven  her  poor,  disconsolate,  forlorn. 

Affectionate  humble  servant,  till  death, 
Clifton,  April  6.  Lydia  Melford. 

To  Miss  Laetitia  Willis,  at  Gloucester 

My  dearest  Letty, 
I  am  in  such  a  fright,  lest  this  should  not  come  safe  to  hand 
by  the  conveyance  of  Jarvis  the  carrier,  that  I  beg  you  will  write 
me  on  the  receipt  of  it,  directing  to  me,  under  cover,  to  Mrs. 
Winifred  Jenkins,  my  aunt's  maid,  who  is  a  good  girl,  and  has 
been  so  kind  to  me  in  my  afffiction,  that  I  have  made  her  my  con- 
fidante. As  for  Jarvis,  he  was  very  shy  of  taking  charge  of  my 
letter  and  the  little  parcel,  because  his  sister  Sally  had  like  to  have 
lost  her  place  on  my  account.  Indeed,  I  cannot  blame  the  man 
for  his  caution,  but  I  have  made  it  worth  his  while.  My  dear 
companion  and  bed-fellow,  it  is  a  grievous  addition  to  my  other 
misfortunes  that  I  am  deprived  of  your  agreeable  company  and 
conversation,  at  a  time  when  I  need  so  much  the  comfort  of  your 
good  humour  and  good  sense :  but,  I  hope,  the  friendship  we 
contracted  at  boarding-school  will  last  for  life.  I  doubt  not  but 
on  my  side  it  will  daily  increase  and  improve,  as  I  gain  experience, 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  421 

and  learn  to  know  the  value  of  a  true  friend.  O  my  dear  Letty  ! 
what  shall  I  say  about  poor  Mr.  Wilson  !  I  have  promised  to 
break  ofi  all  correspondence,  and,  if  possible,  to  forget  him  ;  but, 
alas  !  I  begin  to  perceive  that  will  not  be  in  my  power.  As  it  is 
by  no  means  proper  that  the  picture  should  remain  in  my  hands, 
lest  it  should  be  the  occasion  of  more  mischief,  I  have  sent  it  to 
you  by  this  opportunity,  begging  you  will  either  keep  it  safe  till 
better  times,  or  return  it  to  Mr.  Wilson  himself,  who,  I  suppose, 
will  make  it  his  business  to  see  you  at  the  usual  place.  If  he 
should  be  low-spirited  at  my  sending  back  his  picture,  you  may 
tell  him  I  have  no  occasion  for  a  picture,  while  the  original  con- 
tinues engraved  on  my  — .  But  no  ;  I  would  not  have  you  tell 
him  that  neither,  because  there  must  be  an  end  of  our  corre- 
spondence. I  wish  he  may  forget  me,  for  the  sake  of  his  own 
peace  ;  and  yet  if  he  should,  he  must  be  a  barbarous  — .  But  it 
is  impossible  !  Poor  Wilson  cannot  be  false  and  inconstant ! 
I  beseech  him  not  to  write  to  me,  nor  attempt  to  see  me  for  some 
time;  for,  considering  the  resentment  and  passionate  temper 
of  my  brother  Jerry,  such  an  attempt  might  be  attended  with 
consequences  which  would  make  us  all  miserable  for  life.  Let 
us  trust  to  time  and  the  chapter  of  accidents ;  or  rather  to  that 
Providence  which  will  not  fail,  sooner  or  later,  to  reward  those 
that  walk  in  the  paths  of  honour  and  virtue.  I  would  offer  my 
love  to  the  young  ladies ;  but  it  is  not  fit  that  any  of  them  should 
know  you  have  received  this  letter.  If  we  go  to  Bath,  I  shall 
send  you  my  simple  remarks  upon  that  famous  centre  of  pohte 
amusement,  and  every  other  place  we  may  chance  to  visit ;  and 
I  flatter  myself  that  my  dear  Miss  Willis  will  be  punctual  in 
answering  the  letters  of 

Her  affectionate 
Clifton,  April  6.  Lydia  Melford. 

To  Miss  Lydia  Melford 

Miss  Willis  has  pronounced  my  doom  !  You  are  going  away, 
dear  Miss  Melford  !  you  are  going  to  be  removed,  I  know  not 
whither  !  What  shall  I  do  ?  Which  way  shall  I  turn  for  con- 
solation ?     I  know  not  what  I  say  !     All  night  long  have  I  been 


42  2  TOBIAS    SMOLLETT 

tossed  in  a  sea  of  doubts  and  fears,  uncertainty  and  distraction, 
without  being  able  to  connect  my  thoughts,  much  less  to  form 
any  consistent  plan  of  conduct.     I  was  even  tempted  to  wish  that 
I  had  never  seen  you  ;  or  that  you  had  been  less  amiable,  or  less 
compassionate  to  your  poor  Wilson  :  and  yet  it  would  be  detest- 
able ingratitude  in  me  to  form  such  a  wish,  considering  how  much 
I  am  indebted  to  your  goodness,  and  the  ineffable  pleasure  I  have 
derived  from  your  indulgence  and  approbation.     Good  God !     I 
never  heard  your  name  mentioned  without  emotion !     The  most 
distant  prospect  of  being  admitted  to  your  company,  filled  my 
whole  soul  with  a  kind  of  pleasing  alarm!     As  the  time  ap- 
proached, my  heart  beat  with  redoubled  force,  and  every  nerve 
thrilled  with  a  transport  of  expectation :  but  when  I  found  my- 
self actually  in  your  presence — when  I  heard  you  speak — when 
I  saw  you  smile — when  I  beheld  your  charming  eyes  turned 
favourably  upon  me — my  breast  was  filled  with  such  tumults 
of  delight,  as  wholly  deprived  me  of  the  power  of  utterance,  and 
wrapped  me  in  a  delirium  of  joy!     Encouraged  by  your  sweet- 
ness of  temper  and  affability,  I  ventured  to  describe  the  feelings 
of  my  heart.     Even  then  you  did  not  check  my  presumption ; 
you  pitied  my  sufferings,  and  gave  me  leave  to  hope — you  put 
a  favourable,  perhaps  too  favourable,  a  construction  on  my  ap- 
pearance.    Certain  it  is,  I  am  no  player  in  love.     I  speak  the 
language  of  my  own  heart,  and  have  no  prompter  but  Nature. 
Yet  there  is  something  in  this  heart,  which  I  have  not  yet  dis- 
closed.    I  flattered  myself — -But,  I  will  not — I  must  not  pro- 
ceed.    Dear  Miss  Liddy!   for  Heaven's  sake,  contrive,  if  pos- 
sible, some  means  of  letting  me  speak  to  you  before  you  leave 
Gloucester;  otherwise,  I  know  not  what  will  —  But  I  begin  to 
rave  again — I  will  endeavour  to  bear  this  trial  with  fortitude. 
While  I  am  capable  of  reflecting  upon  your  tenderness  and  truth, 
I  surely  have  no  cause  to  despair ;  yet  I  am  strangely  affected. 
The  sun  seems  to  deny  me  light,  a  cloud  hangs  over  me,  and  there 
is  a  dreadful  weight  upon  my  spirits!     While  you  stay  in  this 
place,  I  shall  continually  hover  about  your  lodgings,   as  the 
parted  soul  is  said  to  linger  about  the  grave  where  its  mortal 
consort  lies.     I  know,  if  it  is  in  your  power,  you  will  task  your 
humanity  —  your  compassion  —  shall  I  add,  your  affection?  — 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  423 

in  order  to  assuage  the  almost  intolerable  disquiet  that  torments 
the  heart  of 

Your  afflicted 
Gloucester,  March  31.  Wilson. 

To  Dr.  Lewis 

Bath,  April  23. 
Dear  Doctor, 

If  I  did  not  know  that  the  exercise  of  your  profession  has 
habituated  you  to  the  hearing  of  complaints,  I  should  make  a 
conscience  of  troubling  you  with  my  correspondence,  which  may 
be  truly  called  The  Lamentations  of  Matthew  Bramble.  Yet  I 
cannot  help  thinking  I  have  some  right  to  discharge  the  over- 
flowings of  my  spleen  upon  you,  w^hosc  province  it  is  to  remove 
those  disorders  that  occasioned  it ;  and,  let  me  tell  you,  it  is  no 
small  alleviation  of  my  grievances  that  I  have  a  sensible  friend, 
to  w^hom  I  can  communicate  my  crusty  humours ;  which,  by 
retention,  would  grow  intolerably  acrimonious. 

You  must  know,  I  fmd  nothing  but  disappointment  at  Bath ; 
which  is  so  altered,  that  I  can  scarce  believe  it  is  the  same  place 
that  I  frequented  about  thirty  years  ago.  Methinks  I  hear  you 
say  —  "altered  it  is,  without  all  doubt ;  but  then  it  is  altered  for 
the  better :  a  truth  which,  perhaps,  you  would  own  without 
hesitation,  if  you  yourself  was  not  altered  for  the  worse."  The 
reflection  may,  for  aught  I  know,  be  just.  The  inconveniences 
which  I  overlooked  in  the  high-day  of  health,  will  naturally 
strike  with  exaggerated  impression  on  the  irritable  nerves  of  an 
invaHd,  surprised  by  premature  old  age,  and  shattered  with  long 
suffering.  But,  I  believe,  you  will  not  deny  that  this  place, 
which  Nature  and  Providence  seem  to  have  intended  as  a  re- 
source from  distemper  and  disquiet,  is  become  the  very  centre  of 
racket  and  dissipation.  Instead  of  that  peace,  tranquillity,  and 
ease,  so  necessary  to  those  who  labour  under  bad  health,  weak 
nerves,  and  irregular  spirits,  here  we  have  nothing  but  noise, 
tumult,  and  hurry ;  with  the  fatigue  and  slavery  of  maintaining 
a  ceremonial,  more  stiff,  formal,  and  oppressive,  than  the  etiquette 
of  a  German  elector.  A  national  hospital  it  may  be ;  but  one 
would  imagine  that  none  but  lunatics  are  admitted ;  and,  truly, 
I  will  give  you  leave  to  call  me  so,  if  I  stay  much  longer  at  Bath. 


424  TOBIAS    SMOLLETT 

But  I  shall  take  another  opportunity  to  explain  my  sentiments 
at  greater  length  on  this  subject.  I  was  impatient  to  see  the 
boasted  improvements  in  architecture,  for  which  the  upper  parts 
of  the  town  have  been  so  much  celebrated ;  and  t'other  day  I 
made  a  circuit  of  all  the  new  buildings.  The  Square,  though 
irregular,  is,  on  the  whole,  pretty  well  laid  out,  spacious,  open, 
and  airy ;  and  in  my  opinion,  by  far  the  most  wholesome  and 
agreeable  situation  in  Bath,  especially  the  upper  side  of  it ;  but 
the  avenues  to  it  are  mean,  dirty,  dangerous,  and  indirect.  Its 
communication  with  the  baths  is  through  the  yard  of  an  inn, 
where  the  poor  trembling  valetudinarian  is  carried  in  a  chair 
betwixt  the  heels  of  a  double  row  of  horses,  wincing  under  the 
curry-combs  of  grooms  and  postilhons,  over  and  above  the  hazard 
of  being  obstructed,  or  overturned,  by  the  carriages  which  are 
continually  making  their  exit  or  their  entrance.  I  suppose, 
after  some  chairman  shall  have  been  maimed,  and  a  few  lives 
lost  by  those  accidents,  the  corporation  will  think,  in  earnest, 
about  providing  a  more  safe  and  commodious  passage.  The  Cir- 
cus is  a  pretty  bauble,  contrived  for  show,  and  looks  like  Ves- 
pasian's amphitheatre  turned  outside  in.  If  we  consider  it  in 
point  of  magnificence,  the  great  number  of  small  doors  belonging 
to  the  separate  houses,  the  inconsiderable  height  of  the  different 
orders,  the  affected  ornaments  of  the  architrave,  which  are  both 
childish  and  misplaced,  and  the  areas  projecting  into  the  street, 
surrounded  with  iron  rails,  destroy  a  good  part  of  its  effect  upon 
the  eye.  And  perhaps  we  shall  find  it  still  more  defective,  if  we 
view  it  in  the  light  of  convenience.  The  figure  of  each  separate 
dwelling-house,  being  the  segment  of  a  circle,  must  spoil  the 
symmetry  of  the  rooms,  by  contracting  them  towards  the  street 
windows,  and  leaving  a  larger  sweep  in  the  space  behind.  If, 
instead  of  the  areas  and  iron  rails,  which  seem  to  be  of  very  little 
use,  there  had  been  a  corridore  with  arcades  all  round,  as  in 
Covent  Garden,  the  appearance  of  the  whole  would  have  been 
more  magnificent  and  striking :  those  arcades  would  have  af- 
forded an  agreeable  covered  walk,  and  sheltered  the  poor  chair- 
men and  their  carriages  from  the  rain,  which  is  here  almost  per- 
petual. At  present,  the  chairs  stand  soaking  in  the  open  street, 
from  morning  to  night,  till  they  become  so  many  boxes  of  wet 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  425 

leather,  for  the  benefit  of  the  gouty  and  rheumatic,  who  are 
transported  in  them  from  place  to  place.  Indeed,  this  is  a 
shocking  inconvenience,  that  extends  over  the  whole  city ;  and 
I  am  persuaded  it  produces  infinite  mischief  to  the  delicate  and 
infirm :  even  the  close  chairs  contrived  for  the  sick,  by  standing 
in  the  open  air,  have  their  frize  linings  impregnated,  like  so 
many  sponges,  with  the  moisture  of  the  atmosphere ;  and  those 
cases  of  cold  vapour  must  give  a  charming  check  to  the  per- 
spiration of  a  patient,  piping  hot  from  the  bath,  with  all  his 
pores  wide  open. 

But  to  return  to  the  Circus.  It  is  inconvenient  from  its  situa- 
tion, at  so  great  a  distance  from  all  the  markets,  baths,  and  places 
of  public  entertainment.  The  only  entrance  to  it,  through  Gay- 
street,  is  so  difficult,  steep,  and  slippery,  that  in  wet  weather  it 
must  be  exceedingly  dangerous,  both  for  those  that  ride  in  car- 
riages, and  those  that  walk  afoot ;  and  when  the  street  is  covered 
with  snow,  as  it  was  for  fifteen  days  successively  this  very  winter, 
I  don't  see  how  any  individual  could  go  either  up  or  down,  with- 
out the  most  imminent  hazard  of  broken  bones.  In  blowing 
weather,  I  am  told,  most  of  the  houses  in  this  hill  are  smothered 
with  smoke,  forced  down  the  chimneys  by  the  gusts  of  wind  re- 
verberated from  the  hill  behind,  which  (I  apprehend  likewise) 
must  render  the  atmosphere  here  more  humid  and  unwholesome 
than  it  is  in  the  square  below  :  for  the  clouds,  formed  by  the 
constant  evaporation  from  the  baths  and  rivers  in  the  bottom, 
will,  in  their  ascent  this  way,  be  first  attracted  and  detained  by 
the  hill  that  rises  close  behind  the  Circus,  and  load  the  air  with  a 
perpetual  succession  of  vapours.  This  point,  however,  may  be 
easily  ascertained  by  means  of  an  hygrometer,  or  a  paper  of  salt 
of  tartar  exposed  to  the  action  of  the  atmosphere.  The  same 
artist  who  planned  the  Circus,  has  likewise  projected  a  Crescent : 
when  that  is  finished,  we  shall  probably  have  a  Star ;  and  those 
who  are  living  thirty  years  hence,  may,  perhaps,  see  all  the  signs 
of  the  Zodiac  exhibited  in  architecture  at  Bath.  These,  however 
fantastical,  are  still  designs  that  denote  some  ingenuity  and  knowl- 
edge in  the  architect ;  but  the  rage  of  building  has  laid  hold  on 
such  a  number  of  adventurers,  that  one  sees  new  houses  starting 
up  in  every  outlet  and  every  corner  of  Bath,  contrived  without 


426  TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 

judgment,  executed  without  solidity,  and  stuck  together  with 
so  little  regard  to  plan  and  propriety,  that  the  different  lines 
of  the  new  rows  and  buildings  interfere  with  and  intersect  one 
another  in  every  different  angle  of  conjunction.  They  look  like 
the  wreck  of  streets  and  squares  disjointed  by  an  earthquake, 
which  hath  broken  the  ground  into  a  variety  of  holes  and  hil- 
locks; or,  as  if  some  Gothic  devil  had  stuffed  them  all  together 
in  a  bag,  and  left  them  to  stand  higgledy-piggledy,  just  as  chance 
directed.  What  sort  of  a  monster  Bath  will  become  in  a  few 
years,  with  those  growing  excrescences,  may  be  easily  con- 
ceived. But  the  want  of  beauty  and  proportion  is  not  the  worst 
effect  of  these  new  mansions ;  they  are  built  so  slight,  with  the 
soft  crumbling  stone  found  in  this  neighbourhood,  that  I  should 
never  sleep  quietly  in  one  of  them,  when  it  blowed  (as  the  sailors 
say)  a  cap-full  of  wind :  and  I  am  persuaded,  that  my  hind, 
Roger  Williams,  or  any  man  of  equal  strength,  would  be  able  to 
push  his  foot  through  the  strongest  part  of  their  walls,  without 
any  great  exertion  of  his  muscles.  All  these  absurdities  arise 
from  the  general  tide  of  luxury,  which  hath  overspread  the 
nation,  and  swept  away  all,  even  the  very  dregs  of  the  people. 
Every  upstart  of  fortune,  harnessed  in  the  trappings  of  the 
mode,  presents  himself  at  Bath,  as  in  the  very  focus  of  obser- 
vation. Clerks  and  factors  from  the  East-Indies,  loaded  with 
the  spoil  of  plundered  provinces ;  planters,  negro-drivers,  and 
hucksters,  from  our  American  plantations,  enriched  they  know 
not  how ;  agents,  commissaries,  and  contractors,  who  have 
fattened,  in  two  successive  wars,  on  the  blood  of  the  nation ; 
usurers,  brokers,  and  jobbers  of  every  kind ;  men  of  low  birth 
and  no  breeding,  have  found  themselves  suddenly  translated 
into  a  state  of  affluence,  unknown  to  former  ages  :  and  no  wonder 
that  their  brains  should  be  intoxicated  with  pride,  vanity,  and 
presumption.  Knowing  no  other  criterion  of  greatness  but  the 
ostentation  of  wealth,  they  discharge  their  affluence,  without 
taste  or  conduct,  through  every  channel  of  the  most  absurd  ex- 
travagance ;  and  all  of  them  hurry  to  Bath,  because  here,  with- 
out any  further  qualification,  they  can  mingle  with  the  princes 
and  nobles  of  the  land.  Even  the  wives  and  daughters  of  low 
tradesmen,  who,  like  shovel-nosed  sharks,  prey  upon  the  blubber 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  427 

of  those  uncouth  whales  of  fortune,  are  infected  with  the  same 
rage  of  displaying  their  importance  ;  and  the  sHghtest  indisposi- 
tion serves  them  for  a  pretext  to  insist  upon  being  conveyed  to 
Bath,  where  they  may  hobble  country-dances  and  cotillons 
among  lordhngs,  squires,  counsellors,  and  clergy.  These  deli- 
cate creatures  from  Bedfordbury,  Butcher-row,  Crutched-friars, 
and  Botolph-lane,  cannot  breathe  in  the  gross  air  of  the  Lower 
Town,  or  conform  to  the  vulgar  rules  of  a  common  lodging-house ; 
the  husband,  therefore,  must  provide  an  entire  house,  or  elegant 
apartments  in  the  new  buildings.  Such  is  the  composition  of 
what  is  called  the  fashionable  company  at  Bath ;  where  a  very 
inconsiderable  proj)ortion  of  genteel  people  are  lost  in  a  mob  of 
impudent  plebeians,  who  have  neither  understanding  nor  judg- 
ment, nor  the  least  idea  of  propriety  and  decorum  ;  and  seem  to 
enjoy  nothing  so  much  as  an  opportunity  of  insulting  their 
betters. 

Thus  the  number  of  people  and  the  number  of  houses  continue 
to  increase ;  and  this  will  ever  be  the  case,  till  the  streams  that 
swell  this  irresistible  torrent  of  folly  and  extravagance  shall  either 
be  exhausted,  or  turned  into  other  channels,  by  incidents  and 
events  which  I  do  not  pretend  to  foresee.  This,  I  own,  is  a  sub- 
ject on  which  I  cannot  write  with  any  degree  of  patience ;  for  the 
mob  is  a  monster  I  never  could  abide,  either  in  its  head,  tail, 
midriff,  or  members ;  I  detest  the  whole  of  it,  as  a  mass  of  ig- 
norance, presumption,  malice,  and  brutality :  and  in  this  term 
of  reprobation  I  include,  without  respect  of  rank,  station,  or 
quality,  all  those,  of  both  sexes,  who  affect  its  manners  and  court 
its  society. 

But  I  have  written  till  my  fingers  are  cramped,  and  my  nausea 
begins  to  return.  By  your  advice,  I  sent  to  London  a  few  days 
ago  for  half  a  pound  of  gengzeng  ;  though  I  much  doubt  whether 
that  which  comes  from  America  is  equally  efficacious  with  what 
is  brought  from  the  East  Indies.  Some  years  ago,  a  friend 
of  mine  paid  sixteen  guineas  for  two  ounces  of  it ;  and  in  six 
months  after,  it  was  sold  in  the  same  shop  for  five  shillings 
the  pound.  In  short,  we  Hve  in  a  vile  world  of  fraud  and 
sophistication ;  so  that  I  know  nothing  of  equal  value  with  the 
genuine  friendship  of  a  sensible  man :  a  rare  jewel,  which  I 


428  TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 

cannot  help  thinking  myself  in  possession  of,  while  I  repeat  the 
old  declaration,  that 

I  am,  as  usual,  dear  Lewis,  your  affectionate, 

M.  Bramble. 

After  having  been  agitated  in  a  short  hurricane,  on  my  first 
arrival,  I  have  taken  a  small  house  in  Milsham-street,  where  I 
am  tolerably  well  lodged,  for  five  guineas  a  week.  I  was  yester- 
day at  the  pump-room,  and  drank  about  a  pint  of  the  water, 
which  seems  to  agree  with  my  stomach  ;  and  to-morrow  morning 
I  shall  bathe,  for  the  first  time ;  so  that  in  a  few  posts  you  may 
expect  farther  trouble :  meanwhile,  I  am  glad  to  find  that  the 
inoculation  has  succeeded  so  well  with  poor  Joyce,  and  that  her 
face  will  be  but  little  marked.  If  my  friend  Sir  Thomas  was  a 
single  man,  I  would  not  trust  such  a  handsome  wench  in  his 
family ;  but,  as  I  have  recommended  her,  in  a  particular  manner, 
to  the  protection  of  Lady  G — ,  who  is  one  of  the  best  women  in 
the  world,  she  may  go  thither  without  hesitation,  as  soon  as  she 
is  quite  recovered,  and  fit  for  service.  Let  her  mother  have 
money  to  provide  her  with  necessaries  ;  and  she  may  ride  behind 
her  brother  on  Bucks :  but  you  must  lay  strong  injunctions  on 
Jack  to  take  particular  care  of  the  trusty  old  veteran,  who  has 
faithfully  earned  his  present  ease  by  his  past  services. 

To  Miss  Willis,  at  Gloucester 

Bath,  April  26. 
My  dearest  companion, 

The  pleasure  I  received  from  yours,  which  came  to  hand  yes- 
terday, is  not  to  be  expressed.  Love  and  friendship  are,  without 
doubt,  charming  passions ;  which  absence  serves  only  to  heighten 
and  improve.  Your  kind  present  of  the  garnet  bracelets  I  shall 
keep  as  carefully  as  I  preserve  my  own  life ;  and  I  beg  you  will 
accept,  in  return,  of  my  heart-housewife,  with  the  tortoise- 
shell  memorandum-book,  as  a  trifling  pledge  of  my  unalterable 
affection. 

Bath  is  to  me  a  new  world :  all  is  gaiety,  good-humour,  and 
diversion :  the  eye  is  continually  entertained  with  the  splendour 
of  dress  and  equipage ;    and  the  ear  with  the  sound  of  coaches. 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  429 

chaises,  chairs,  and  other  carriages.  The  merry  hells  ring  round 
from  morn  till  night.  Then  we  are  welcomed  by  the  city-waits 
in  our  own  lodgings ;  we  have  music  in  the  pump-room  every 
morning ;  cotillons  every  forenoon  in  the  rooms ;  balls  twice  a 
week ;  and  concerts  every  other  night ;  besides  private  assem- 
blies and  parties  without  number.  As  soon  as  we  were  settled 
in  lodgings,  we  were  visited  by  the  master  of  the  ceremonies ;  a 
pretty  little  gentleman,  so  sweet,  so  fine,  so  civil,  and  polite, 
that  in  our  country  he  might  pass  for  the  Prince  of  Wales :  then 
he  talks  so  charming,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  that  you  would  be 
delighted  to  hear  him  discourse :  for,  you  must  know,  he  is  a 
great  writer,  and  has  got  five  tragedies  ready  for  the  stage.  He 
did  us  the  favour  to  dine  with  us,  by  my  uncle's  invitation ;  and 
next  day  squired  my  aunt  and  me  to  every  part  of  Bath  ;  which, 
to  be  sure,  is  an  earthly  paradise.  The  Square,  the  Circus,  and 
the  Parades,  put  you  in  mind  of  the  sumptuous  palaces  repre- 
sented in  prints  and  pictures ;  and  the  new  buildings,  such  as 
Prince's  Row,  Harlequin's  Row,  Bladud's  Row,  and  twenty 
other  rows,  look  like  so  many  enchanted  castles  raised  on  hang- 
ing terraces. 

At  eight  in  the  morning  we  go  in  dishabille  to  the  pump-room, 
which  is  crowded  like  a  Welsh  fair  ;  and  there  you  see  the  highest 
quality  and  the  lowest  trades-folk  jostling  each  other,  without 
ceremony,  hail  fellow  well  met.  The  noise  of  the  music  playing 
in  the  gallery,  the  heat  and  flavour  of  such  a  crowd,  and  the  hum 
and  buz  of  their  conversation,  gave  me  the  head-ache  and  vertigo 
the  first  day ;  but  afterwards,  all  these  things  became  familiar, 
and  even  agreeable.  Right  under  the  pump-room  windows  is 
the  King's  bath ;  a  huge  cistern,  where  you  see  the  patients  up 
to  their  necks  in  hot  water.  The  ladies  wear  jackets  and  petti- 
coats of  brown  linen,  with  chip  hats,  in  which  they  fix  their 
handkerchiefs  to  wipe  the  sweat  from  their  faces :  but,  truly, 
whether  it  is  owing  to  the  steam  that  surrounds  them,  or  the 
heat  of  the  water,  or  the  nature  of  the  dress,  or  all  these  causes 
together,  they  look  so  flushed,  and  so  frightful,  that  I  always 
turn  my  ^es  another  way.  My  aunt,  who  says  every  person  of 
fashion  should  make  her  appearance  in  the  bath,  as  well  as  in 
the  abbey  church,  contrived  a  cap  with  cherry-coloured  ribbons 


430  TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 

to  suit  her  complexion,  and  obliged  Win  to  attend  her  yesterday 
morning  in  the  water.  But,  really,  her  eyes  were  so  red,  that 
they  made  mine  water  as  I  viewed  her  from  the  pump-room  ;  and 
as  for  poor  Win,  who  wore  a  hat  trimmed  with  blue,  what  be- 
twixt her  wan  complexion  and  her  fear,  she  looked  like  the  ghost 
of  some  pale  maiden,  who  had  drowned  herself  for  love.  When 
she  came  out  of  the  bath,  she  took  asafoetida  drops,  and  was 
fluttered  all  day ;  so  that  we  could  hardly  keep  her  from  going 
into  hysterics ;  but  her  mistress  says  it  will  do  her  good ;  and 
poor  Win  curtsies  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  For  my  part, 
I  content  myself  with  drinking  about  half  a  pint  of  water 
every  morning. 

The  pumper,  with  his  wife  and  servant,  attend  within  a  bar ; 
and  the  glasses,  of  different  sizes,  stand  ranged  in  order  before 
them ;  so  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  point  at  that  which  you 
choose,  and  it  is  filled  immediately,  hot  and  sparkling  from  the 
pump.  It  is  the  only  hot  water  I  could  ever  drink  without  being 
sick.  Far  from  having  that  effect,  it  is  rather  agreeable  to  the 
taste,  grateful  to  the  stomach,  and  reviving  to  the  spirits.  You 
cannot  imagine  what  wonderful  cures  it  performs.  My  uncle 
began  with  it  the  other  day  ;  but  he  made  wry  faces  in  drinking  ; 
and  I  am  afraid  he  will  leave  it  off.  The  first  day  we  came  to 
Bath,  he  fell  into  a  violent  passion ;  beat  two  black-a-moors, 
and  I  was  afraid  he  would  have  fought  with  their  master ;  but 
the  stranger  proved  a  peaceable  man.  To  be  sure,  the  gout  had 
got  into  his  head,  as  my  aunt  observed :  but,  I  believe,  his 
passion  drove  it  away ;  for  he  has  been  remarkably  well  ever 
since.  It  is  a  thousand  pities  he  should  ever  be  troubled  with 
that  ugly  distemper;  for  when  he  is  free  from  pain,  he  is  the 
best-tempered  man  upon  earth ;  so  gentle,  so  generous,  so  chari- 
table, that  every  body  loves  him ;  and  so  good  to  me,  in  partic- 
ular, that  I  shall  never  be  able  to  show  the  deep  sense  I  have  of 
his  tenderness  and  affection. 

Hard  by  the  pump-room  is  a  coffee-house  for  the  ladies ;  but 
my  aunt  says  young  girls  are  not  admitted,  inasmuch  as  the  con- 
versation turns  upon  politics,  scandal,  philosophy,  and  other  sub- 
jects above  our  capacity:  but  we  are  allowed  to  accompany 
them  to  the  booksellers'  shops,  which  are  charming  places  of 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  431 

resort ;  where  we  read  novels,  plays,  pamphlets,  and  newspapers, 
for  so  small  a  subscription  as  a  crown  a  quarter :  and  in  these 
offices  of  intelligence  (as  my  brother  calls  them)  all  the  reports 
of  the  day,  and  all  the  private  transactions  of  the  Bath,  are  first 
entered  and  discussed.  From  the  bookseller's  shop  we  make  a 
tour  through  the  milliners  and  toymen ;  and  commonly  stop  at 
Mr.  Gill's,  the  pastry-cook,  to  take  a  jelly,  a  tart,  or  a  small 
basin  of  vermicelli.  There  is,  moreover,  another  place  of  en- 
tertainment on  the  other  side  of  the  water,  opposite  to  the  Grove  ; 
to  which  the  company  cross  over  in  a  boat :  it  is  called  Spring 
Garden ;  a  sweet  retreat,  laid  out  in  walks  and  ponds  and  par- 
terres of  flowers ;  and  there  is  a  long-room  for  breakfasting  and 
dancing.  As  the  situation  is  low  and  damp,  and  the  season  has 
been  remarkably  wet,  my  uncle  won't  suffer  me  to  go  thither, 
lest  I  should  catch  cold  :  but  my  aunt  says  it  is  all  a  vidgar 
prejudice ;  and,  to  be  sure,  a  great  many  gentlemen  and  ladies 
of  Ireland  frequent  the  place,  without  seeming  to  be  the  worse 
for  it.  They  say,  dancing  at  Spring  Gardens,  when  the  air  is 
moist,  is  recommended  to  them  as  an  excellent  cure  for  the 
rheumatism.  I  have  been  twice  at  the  play ;  where,  notwith- 
standing the  excellence  of  the  performers,  the  gaiety  of  the 
company,  and  the  decorations  of  the  theatre,  which  are  very 
fine,  I  could  not  help  reflecting,  with  a  sigh,  upon  our  poor 
homely  representations  at  Gloucester.  But  this,  in  confidence 
to  my  dear  Willis.  You  know  my  heart,  and  will  excuse  its 
weakness. 

After  all,  the  great  scenes  of  entertainment  at  Bath  are  the 
two  public  rooms,  where  the  company  meet  alternately  every 
evening :  they  are  spacious,  lofty,  and,  when  lighted  up,  appear 
very  striking.  They  are  generally  crowded  with  well-dressed 
people,  who  drink  tea  in  separate  parties,  play  at  cards,  walk,  or 
sit  and  chat  together  just  as  they  are  disposed.  Twice  a  week 
there  is  a  ball ;  the  expense  of  which  is  defrayed  by  a  voluntary 
subscription  among  the  gentlemen ;  and  every  subscriber  has 
three  tickets.  I  was  there  on  Friday  last  with  my  aunt,  under 
the  care  of  my  brother,  who  is  a  subscriber ;  and  Sir  Ulic  Mac- 
kilHgut  recommended  his  nephew,  Captain  O'Donaghan,  to  me 
as  a  partner ;    but  Jerry  excused  himself,  by  saying  I  had  got 


432 


TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 


the  head-ache ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  really  so,  though  I  can't 
imagine  how  he  knew  it.  The  place  was  so  hot,  and  the  smell  so 
different  from  what  we  are  used  to  in  the  country,  that  I  was  quite 
feverish  when  we  came  away.  Aunt  says  it  is  the  effect  of  a 
vulgar  constitution,  reared  among  woods  and  mountains ;  and 
that,  as  I  become  accustomed  to  genteel  company,  it  will  wear 
off.  Sir  Uhc  was  very  complaisant,  made  her  a  great  many 
high-flown  compUments,  and,  when  we  retired,  handed  her  with 
great  ceremony  to  her  chair.  The  captain,  I  believe,  would 
have  done  me  the  same  favour ;  but  my  brother,  seeing  him 
advance,  took  me  under  his  arm,  and  wished  him  good-night. 
The  captain  is  a  pretty  man,  to  be  sure ;  tall  and  straight,  and 
well-made ;  with  light  grey  eyes,  and  a  Roman  nose  :  but  there 
is  a  certain  boldness  in  his  look  and  manner  that  puts  one  out  of 
countenance.  But  I  am  afraid  I  have  put  you  out  of  all  patience 
with  this  long  unconnected  scrawl ;  which  I  shall  therefore  con- 
clude with  assuring  you,  that  neither  Bath  nor  London,  nor  all 
the  diversions  of  life,  shall  ever  be  able  to  efface  the  idea  of  my 
dear  Letty,  from  the  heart  of 

Her  ever  affectionate 

Lydia  Melford. 

To  Mrs.  Mary  Jones,  at  Brambleton  Hall 

Dear  Molly  Jones, 
Heaving  got  a  frank,  I  now  return  your  fever,  which  I  received 
by  Mr.  Higgins,  at  the  Hot  Well,  together  with  the  stockings 
which  his  wife  footed  for  me ;  but  now  they  are  of  no  survice. 
Nobody  wears  such  things  in  this  place.  O  Molly  !  you  that  live 
in  the  country  have  no  deception  of  our  doings  at  Bath.  Here  is 
such  dressing,  and  fiddling,  and  dancing,  and  gadding,  and 
courting,  and  plotting  !  O  gracious  !  if  God  had  not  given  me  a 
good  stock  of  discretion,  what  a  power  of  things  might  not  I  reveal 
consarning  old  mistress  and  young  mistress  !  Jews  with  beards, 
that  were  no  Jews,  but  handsome  Christians,  without  a  hair  upon 
their  sin,  strolHng  with  spectacles,  to  get  speech  of  Miss  Liddy. 
But  she's  a  dear  sweet  soul,  as  innocent  as  the  child  unborn. 
She  has  tould  me  all  her  inward  thoughts,  and  disclosed  her 
passion  for  Mr.  Wilson ;    and  that's  not  his  name  neither :   and 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  433 

thof  he  acted  among  the  player-men,  he  is  meat  for  their  mas- 
ters ;  and  she  has  gi'en  me  her  yellow  trollopea :  which  Mrs. 
Drab,  the  manty-maker,  says  will  look  very  well  when  it  is 
scowred  and  smoaked  with  silfur.  You  knows  as  how,  yallow 
fitts  my  fizzogmony.  God  he  knows  what  havock  I  shall  make 
among  the  mail  sex,  when  I  make  my  first  appearance  in  this 
killing  collar,  with  a  full  soot  of  gaze,  as  good  as  new,  that  I 
bought  last  Friday  of  Madam  Friponeau,  the  French  mullaner. 
Dear  girl,  I  have  seen  all  the  fine  shows  of  Bath  ;  the  Prades,  the 
Squires,  and  the  CircUs ;  the  Crasint,  the  Hottogon,  and  Bloody 
Buildings,  and  Harry  King's  Row :  and  I  have  been  twice  in  the 
bath  with  mistress,  and  na'r  a  smoak  upon  our  backs,  hussy. 
The  first  time  I  was  mortally  afraid,  and  flustered  all  day ;  and 
afterwards  made  beUeve  that  I  had  got  the  heddick ;  but  mistress 
said,  if  I  didn't  go  I  should  take  a  dose  of  bumtaffy ;  and  so, 
remembering  how  it  worked  Mrs.  Gwyllim  a  pennorth,  1  chose 
rather  to  go  again  with  her  into  the  bath ;  and  then  I  met  with 
an  axident.  I  dropt  my  petticoat,  and  could  not  get  it  up  from 
the  bottom.  But  what  did  that  signify?  They  mought  laff, 
but  they  could  see  nothing ;  for  I  was  up  to  the  sin  in  water.  To 
be  sure,  it  threw  me  into  such  a  gumbustion,  that  I  know  not 
what  I  said,  nor  what  I  did,  nor  how  they  got  me  out,  and  rapt 
me  in  a  blanket.  Mrs.  Tabitha  scoulded  a  little  when  we  got 
home ;  but  she  knows  as  I  know  what's  what.  Ah,  Laud  help 
you  !  There  is  Sir  Y^ury  Micligut,  of  Balnaclinch,  in  the  cunty 
of  Kalloway.  I  took  down  the  name  from  his  gentleman,  Mr. 
O'Frizzle,  and  he  has  got  an  estate  of  fifteen  hundred  a-year. 
I  am  sure  he  is  both  rich  and  generous.  But  you  nose,  Molly, 
I  was  always  famous  for  keeping  secrets ;  and  so  he  was  very 
safe  in  trusting  me  with  his  flegm  for  mistress ;  which,  to  be  sure, 
is  very  honourable ;  for  IVIr.  O'Frizzle  assures  me,  he  values 
not  her  portion  a  brass  varthing.  And,  indeed,  what's  poor  ten 
thousand  pounds  to  a  baron  knight  of  his  fortune  ?  And,  truly, 
I  told  Mr.  O'Frizzle  that  was  all  she  had  to  trust  to.  As  for 
John  Thomas,  he's  a  morass  fellor.  I  vow,  I  thought  he  would 
a  fit  with  Mr.  O'Frizzle,  because  he  axed  me  to  dance  with  him 
at  Spring  Garden.  But  God  he  knows  I  have  no  thoughts  eyther 
of  wan  or  t'other. 


434  TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 

As  for  house  news,  the  worst  is,  Chowder  has  fallen  off  greatly 
from  his  stomick ;  he  eats  nothing  but  white-meats,  and  not 
much  of  that ;  and  wheezes,  and  seems  to  be  much  bloated.  The 
doctors  think  he  is  threatened  with  a  dropsy.  Parson  Marrofat, 
who  has  got  the  same  disorder,  finds  great  benefit  from  the 
waters  :  but  Chowder  seems  to  like  them  no  better  than  the  squire  ; 
and  mistress  says,  if  his  case  don't  take  a  favourable  turn,  she 
will  sartinly  carry  him  to  Aberga'nny,  to  drink  goat's-whey.  To 
be  sure  the  poor  dear  honymil  is  lost  for  want  of  axercise ;  for 
which  reason  she  intends  to  give  him  an  airing  once  a-day  upon 
the  Downs,  in  a  postchaise.  I  have  already  made  very  credi- 
able  correxions  in  this  here  place ;  where,  to  be  sure,  we  have 
the  very  squintasense  of  satiety.  Mrs.  Patcher,  my  Lady 
Kilmacullock's  woman,  and  I,  are  sworn  sisters.  She  has  shown 
me  all  her  secrets,  and  learned  me  to  wash  gaze,  and  refrash 
rusty  silks  and  bumbeseens,  by  boiling  them  with  winegar,  cham- 
berlye,  and  stale  beer.  My  short  sack  and  apron  luck  as  good 
as  new  from  the  shop,  and  my  pumpydoor  as  fresh  as  a  rose,  by 
the  help  of  turtle-water.  But  this  is  all  Greek  and  Latten  to  you, 
Molly.  If  we  should  come  to  Aberga'nny,  you'll  be  within  a 
day's  ride  of  us ;  and  then  we  shall  see  wan  another,  please 
God.  If  not,  remember  me  in  your  prayers,  as  I  shall  do  by  you 
in  mine;  and  take  care  of  my  kitten,  and  give  my  kind  sarvice 
to  Sail ;   and  this  is  all  at  present  from 

Your  beloved  friend  and  sarvent, 

Bath,  April  26.  Winifred  Jenkins. 

To  Sir  Watkin  Phillips,  of  Jesus  College,  Oxon. 

Dear  Phillips, 
Without  waiting  for  your  answer  to  my  last,  I  proceed  to  give 
you  an  account  of  our  journey  to  London,  which  has  not  been 
wholly  barren  of  adventure.  Tuesday  last,  the  squire  took  his 
place  in  a  hired  coach  and  four,  accompanied  by  his  sister  and 
mine,  and  Mrs.  Tabby's  maid,  Winifred  Jenkins,  whose  province  it 
was  to  support  Chowder  on  a  cushion  in  her  lap.  I  could  scarce 
refrain  from  laughing,  when  I  looked  into  the  vehicle,  and  saw  that 
animal  sitting  opposite  to  my  uncle,  like  any  other  passenger. 
The  squire,  ashamed  of  his  situation,  blushed  to  the  eyes ;    and 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  435 

calling  to  the  postillions  to  drive  on,  pulled  the  glass  up  in  my  face. 
I,  and  his  servant  John  Thomas,  attended  them  on  horseback. 

Nothing  worth  mentioning  occurred  till  we  arrived  on  the 
edge  of  Marlborough  Downs.  There  one  of  the  fore  horses 
fell,  in  going  down  hill  at  a  round  trot ;  and  the  postillion  behind, 
endeavouring  to  stop  the  carriage,  pulled  it  on  one  side  into  a 
deep  rut,  where  it  was  fairly  overturned.  I  had  rode  on  about 
two  hundred  yards  before ;  but,  hearing  a  loud  scream,  galloped 
back  and  dismounted,  to  give  what  assistance  was  in  my  power. 
When  I  looked  into  the  coach,  I  could  see  nothing  distinctly. 
All  of  a  sudden,  my  uncle  thrust  up  his  bare  pate,  and  bolted 
through  the  window  as  nimble  as  a  grasshopper  .  .  .  [and]  pulling 
the  door  off  its  hinges  with  a  jerk,  laid  hold  on  Liddy's  arm,  and 
brought  her  to  the  light ;  very  much  frighted,  but  little  hurt. 
It  fell  to  my  share  to  deliver  our  aunt  Tabitha^  who  had  lost  her 
cap  in  the  struggle ;  and,  being  rather  more  than  half  frantic 
with  rage  and  terror,  was  no  bad  representation  of  one  of  the 
sister  Furies  that  guard  the  gates  of  hell :  she  expressed  no  sort 
of  concern  for  her  brother,  who  ran  about  in  the  cold,  without 
his  perriwig,  and  worked  with  the  most  astonishing  agility  in 
helping  to  disentangle  the  horses  from  the  carriage ;  but  she 
cried  in  a  tone  of  distraction,  "Chowder!  Chowder!  my  dear 
Chowder  !  my  poor  Chowder  is  certainly  killed  !" 

This  was  not  the  case  :  Chowder,  after  having  tore  my  uncle's 
leg  in  the  confusion  of  the  fall,  had  retreated  under  the  scat,  and 
from  thence  the  footman  drew  him  by  the  neck ;  for  which  good 
ofhce,  he  bit  his  fingers  to  the  bone.  The  fellow,  who  is  naturally 
surly,  was  so  provoked  at  this  assault,  that  he  saluted  his  ribs 
with  a  hearty  kick,  exclaiming,  "Damn  the  nasty  son  of  a  bitch, 
and  them  he  belongs  to  !"  a  benediction,  which  was  by  no  means 
lost  upon  the  implacable  virago  his  mistress.  Her  brother,  how- 
ever, prevailed  upon  her  to  retire  into  a  peasant's  house,  near 
the  scene  of  action,  where  his  head  and  hers  were  covered,  and 
poor  Jenkins  had  a  fit.  Our  next  care  was  to  apply  some  stick- 
ing-plaster to  the  wound  in  his  leg,  which  exhibited  the  impres- 
sion of  Chowder's  teeth ;  but  he  never  opened  his  lips  against 
the  delinquent.  Mrs.  Tabby,  alarmed  at  this  scene;  "You 
say  nothing.  Matt,"  cried  she;    "but  I  know  your  mind:    I 


436  TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 

know  the  spite  you  have  to  that  poor  unfortunate  animal !  I 
know  you  intend  to  take  his  hfe  away  !"  ''You  are  mistaken, 
upon  my  honour!"  repHed  the  squire,  with  a  sarcastic  smile; 
"I  should  be  incapable  of  harbouring  any  such  cruel  design 
against  an  object  so  amiable  and  inoffensive,  even  if  he  had  not 
the  happiness  to  be  your  favourite." 

John  Thomas  was  not  so  delicate.  The  fellow,  whether  really 
alarmed  for  his  life,  or  instigated  by  the  desire  of  revenge,  came 
in,  and  bluntly  demanded  that  the  dog  should  be  put  to  death ; 
on  the  supposition,  that  if  ever  he  should  run  mad  hereafter, 
he,  who  had  been  bit  by  him,  would  be  infected.  My  uncle 
calmly  argued  upon  the  absurdity  of  his  opinion,  observing,  that 
he  himself  was  in  the  same  predicament,  and  would  certainly 
take  the  precaution  he  proposed,  if  he  was  not  sure  he  ran  no 
risk  of  infection. ,  Nevertheless,  Thomas  continued  obstinate ; 
and  at  length  declared,  that  if  the  dog  was  not  shot  immediately, 
he  himself  would  be  his  executioner.  This  declaration  opened 
the  flood-gates  of  Tabby's  eloquence,  which  would  have  shamed 
the  first-rate  oratress  of  Billingsgate.  The  footman  retorted 
in  the  same  style ;  and  the  squire  dismissed  him  from  his  ser- 
vice, after  having  prevented  me  from  giving  him  a  good  horse- 
whipping for  his  insolence. 

The  coach  being  adjusted,  another  difficulty  occurred :  Mrs. 
Tabitha  absolutely  refused  to  enter  it  again,  unless  another  driver 
could  be  found  to  take  the  place  of  the  postillion ;  who,  she 
affirmed,  had  overturned  the  carriage  from  malice  aforethought. 
After  much  dispute,  the  man  resigned  his  place  to  a  shabby 
country-fellow,  who  undertook  to  go  as  far  as  Marlborough, 
where  they  could  be  better  provided ;  and  at  that  place  we 
arrived  about  one  o'clock,  without  farther  impediment.  Mrs. 
Bramble,  however,  found  new  matter  of  offence ;  which,  indeed, 
she  had  a  particular  genius  for  extracting  at  will  from  almost 
every  incident  in  life.  We  had  scarce  entered  the  room  at  Marl- 
borough, where  we  staid  to  dine,  when  she  exhibited  a  formal 
complaint  against  the  poor  fellow  who  had  superseded  the  pos- 
tillion. She  said,  he  was  such  a  beggarly  rascal,  that  he  had 
ne'er  a  shirt  to  his  back :  for  which  act  of  indelicacy  he  deserved 
to  be  set  in  the  stocks. 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  437 

"This  is  a  heinous  offence,  indeed,"  cried  my  uncle;  "let 
us  hear  what  the  fellow  has  to  say  in  his  own  vindication."  He 
was  accordingly  summoned,  and  made  his  appearance,  which 
was  equally  queer  and  pathetic.  He  seemed  to  be  about  twenty 
years  of  age,  of  a  middling  size,  with  bandy  legs,  stooping  shoul- 
ders, high  forehead,  sandy  locks,  pinking  eyes,  flat  nose,  and  long 
chin ;  but  his  complexion  was  of  a  sickly  yellow :  his  looks  de- 
noted famine ;  and  the  rags  that  he  wore  could  hardly  conceal 
what  decency  requires  to  be  covered.  My  uncle,  having  sur- 
veyed him  attentively,  said,  with  an  ironical  expression  in  his 
countenance,  "A'n't  you  ashamed,  fellow,  to  ride  postillion 
without  a  shirt  to  cover  you?"  "Yes,  I  am,  an  please  your 
noble  honour,"  answered  the  man;  "but  necessity  has  no  law, 
as  the  saying  is."  "You're  an  impudent  varlet,"  cried  Mrs. 
Tabby,  "for  presuming  to  ride  before  persons  of  fashion  with- 
out a  shirt."  "I  am  so,  an  please  your  worthy  ladyship,"  said 
he;  "but  I'm  a  poor  Wiltshire  lad.  I  ha'n't  a  shirt  in  the  world, 
that  I  can  call  my  own,  nor  a  rag  of  clothes,  an  please  your 
ladyship,  but  what  you  see.  I  have  no  friend  nor  relation  upon 
earth  to  help  me  out.  I  have  had  the  fever  and  ague  these  six 
months,  and  spent  all  I  had  in  the  world  upon  doctors,  and  to 
keep  soul  and  body  together ;  and,  saving  you  ladyship's  good 
presence,  I  ha'n't  broke  bread  these  four-and-twenty  hours." 

Mrs.  Bramble,  turning  from  him,  said,  she  had  never  seen 
such  a  filthy  tatterdemalion,  and  bid  him  be  gone ;  observing, 
that  he  would  fill  the  room  full  of  vermin.  Her  brother  darted  a 
significant  glance  at  her,  as  she  retired  with  Liddy  into  another 
apartment ;  and  then  asked  the  man  if  he  was  known  to  any 
person  in  Marlborough  ?  when  he  answered,  that  the  landlord 
of  the  inn  had  known  him  from  his  infancy.  Mine  host  was 
immediately  called ;  and,  being  interrogated  on  the  subject, 
declared  that  the  young  fellow's  name  was  Humphry  Clinker : 
that  he  had  been  a  love-begotten  babe,  brought  up  in  the  work- 
house, and  put  out  apprentice  by  the  parish  to  a  country  black- 
smith, who  died  before  the  boy's  time  was  out ;  that  he  had  for 
some  time  worked  under  his  ostler,  as  a  helper  and  extra  postil- 
hon,  till  he  was  taken  ill  of  the  ague,  which  disabled  him  from 
getting  his  bread :    that,  having  sold  or  pawned  every  thing  he 


438  TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 

had  in  the  world  for  his  cure  and  subsistence,  he  became  so  mis- 
erable and  shabby,  that  he  disgraced  the  stable,  and  was  dis- 
missed ;  but  that  he  never  heard  any  thing  to  the  prejudice  of 
his  character  in  other  respects.  "So  that  the  fellow  being  sick 
and  destitute,"  said  my  uncle,  "you  turned  him  out  to  die  in  the 
streets."  "I  pay  the  poors'  rate,"  replied  the  other,  "and  I 
have  no  right  to  maintain  idle  vagrants,  either  in  sickness  or 
health ;  besides,  such  a  miserable  object  would  have  brought  a 
discredit  upon  my  house." 

"You  perceive,"  said  the  squire,  turning  to  me,  "our  landlord 
is  a  Christian  of  bowels.  Who  shall  presume  to  censure  the 
morals  of  the  age,  when  the  very  publicans  exhibit  such  examples 
of  humanity  ?  Hark  ye.  Clinker,  you  are  a  most  notorious 
offender.  You  stand  convicted  of  sickness,  hunger,  wretched- 
ness, and  want.  But,  as  it  does  not  belong  to  me  to  punish  crim- 
inals, I  will  only  take  upon  me  the  task  of  giving  you  a  word  of 
advice  :  Get  a  shirt  with  all  convenient  despatch,  that  your  naked- 
ness may  not  henceforward  give  offence  to  travelling  gentle- 
women, especially  maidens  in  years." 

So  saying,  he  put  a  guinea  into  the  hand  of  the  poor  fellow, 
who  stood  staring  at  him  in  silence,  with  his  mouth  wide  open, 
till  the  landlord  pushed  him  out  of  the  room. 

In  the  afternoon,  as  our  aunt  stept  into  the  coach,  she  ob- 
served, with  some  marks  of  satisfaction,  that  the  postiUion,  who 
rode  next  to  her,  was  not  a  shabby  wretch,  like  the  raggamufhn 
who  had  drove  them  into  Marlborough.  Indeed  the  difference 
was  very  conspicuous :  this  was  a  smart  fellow,  with  a  narrow- 
brimmed  hat  with  gold  cording,  a  cut  bob,  a  decent  blue  jacket, 
leather  breeches,  and  a  clean  linen  shirt,  puiTed  above  the  waist- 
band. When  we  arrived  at  the  Castle  on  Spin  Hill,  where  we 
lay,  this  new  postillion  was  remarkably  assiduous  in  bringing 
in  the  loose  parcels ;  and,  at  length,  displayed  the  individual 
countenance  of  Humphry  Clinker,  who  had  metamorphosed 
himself  in  this  manner  by  relieving  from  pawn  part  of  his  own 
clothes  with  the  money  he  had  received  from  Mr.  Bramble. 

Howsoever  pleased  the  rest  of  the  company  were  with  such  a 
favourable  change  in  the  appearance  of  this  poor  creature,  it 
soured  on  the  stomach  of  Mrs.  Tabby,  who  had  not  yet  digested 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER 


439 


.  .  .  [his]  affront:  she  tossed  her  nose  in  disdain,  saying,  she 
supposed  her  brother  had  taken  him  into  favour,  because  he  had 
insulted  her ;  that  a  fool  and  his  money  were  soon  parted  ;  but 
that  if  Matt  intended  to  take  the  fellow  with  him  to  London, 
she  would  not  go  a  foot  farther  that  way.  My  uncle  said  noth- 
ing with  his  tongue,  though  his  looks  were  sufficiently  expressive ; 
and  next  morning  Clinker  did  not  appear,  so  that  we  proceeded 
without  farther  altercation  to  Salt  Hill,  where  we  proposed  to 
dine.  There  the  first  person  that  came  to  the  side  of  the  coach, 
and  began  to  adjust  the  foot-board,  was  no  other  than  Humphry 
Clinker.  When  I  handed  out  Mrs.  Bramble,  she  eyed  him  with 
a  furious  look,  and  passed  into  the  house.  My  uncle  was  em- 
barrassed, and  asked  him  peevishly,  what  had  brought  him 
hither?  The  fellow  said,  his  honour  had  been  so  good  to  him, 
that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  part  with  him ;  that  he  would  fol- 
low him  to  the  world's  end,  and  serve  him  all  the  days  of  his  life 
without  fee  or  reward. 

Mr.  Bramble  did  not  know  whether  to  chide  or  laugh  at  this 
declaration.  He  foresaw  much  contradiction  on  the,  side  of 
Tabby ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he  could  not  but  be  pleased 
with  the  gratitude  of  Clinker,  as  well  as  with  the  simplicity  of 
his  character.  ''Suppose  I  was  inclined  to  take  you  into  my  ser- 
vice," said  he,  "  what  are  your  qualifications  ?  what  are  you  good 
for?"  "An  please  your  honour,"  answered  this  original,  "I 
can  read  and  write,  and  do  the  business  of  the  stable  indifferent 
well.  I  can  dress  a  horse,  and  shoe  him,  and  bleed  and  rowel 
him :  and  as  for  the  practice  of  sow-gelding,  I  won't  turn  my 
back  on  e'er  a  he  in  the  county  of  Wilts.  Then  I  can  make  hog's- 
puddings  and  hob-nails,  mend  kettles,  and  tin  sauce-pans." 
Here  uncle  burst  out  a  laughing ;  and  inquired  what  other  accom- 
plishments he  was  master  of.  '*I  know  something  of  single- 
stick, and  psalmody,"  proceeded  Clinker.  "I  can  play  upon  the 
Jew's-harp,  sing  Black-eyed  Susan,  Arthur-O'Bradley,  and 
divers  other  songs ;  I  can  dance  a  Welsh  jig,  and  Nancy  Dawson  ; 
wrestle  a  fall  with  any  lad  of  my  inches,  when  I'm  in  heart ; 
and,  under  correction,  I  can  find  a  hare,  when  your  honour 
wants  a  bit  of  game."  "Foregad  !  thou  art  a  complete  fellow," 
cried  my  uncle,  still  laughing.     "I  have  a  good  mind  to  take 


440  TOBIAS    SMOLLETT 

thee  into  my  family.  Pr'ythee,  go  and  try  if  thou  canst  make 
peace  with  my  sister." 

Clinker  accordingly  followed  us  into  the  room,  cap  in  hand, 
where,  addressing  himself  to  Mrs.  Tabitha,  "May  it  please  your 
ladyship's  worship,"  cried  he,  "  to  pardon  and  forgive  my  offences. 
Do,  pray,  good,  sweet,  beautiful  lady,  take  compassion  on  a  poor 
sinner.  God  bless  your  noble  countenance  !  I  am  sure  you  are 
too  handsome  and  generous  to  bear  malice.  I  will  serve  you  on 
my  bended  knees,  by  night  and  by  day,  by  land  and  by  water ; 
and  all  for  the  love  and  pleasure  of  serving  such  an  excellent  lady." 

This  compliment  and  humiliation  had  some  effect  upon  Tabby ; 
but  she  made  no  reply ;  and  Clinker,  taking  silence  for  consent, 
gave  his  attendance  at  dinner.  The  fellow's  natural  awkward- 
ness, and  the  flutter  of  his  spirits,  were  productive  of  repeated 
blunders  in  the  course  of  his  attendance.  At  length,  he  spilt 
part  of  a  custard  upon  her  right  shoulder ;  and,  starting  back, 
trod  upon  Chowder,  who  set  up  a  dismal  howl.  Poor  Humphry 
was  so  disconcerted  at  this  double  mistake,  that  he  dropt  the 
china  dish,  which  broke  into  a  thousand  pieces ;  then  falling 
down  upon  his  knees,  remained  in  that  posture  gaping,  with  a 
most  ludicrous  aspect  of  distress.  Mrs.  Bramble  flew  to  the  dog, 
and,  snatching  him  in  her  arms,  presented  him  to  her  brother, 
saying,  "This  is  all  a  concerted  scheme  against  this  unfortunate 
animal,  whose  only  crime  is  its  regard  for  me.  Here  it  is  :  kill 
it  at  once;   and  then  you'll  be  satisfied." 

Clinker,  hearing  these  words,  and  taking  them  in  the  literal 
acceptation,  got  up  in  some  hurry,  and  seizing  a  knife  from  the 
side-board,  cried,  "Not  here,  an  please  your  ladyship:  it  will 
daub  the  room.  Give  him  to  me,  and  I'll  carry  him  to  the  ditch 
by  the  road  side."  To  this  proposal  he  received  no  other  answer 
than  a  hearty  box  on  the  ear,  that  made  him  stagger  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room.  "What !"  said  she  to  her  brother,  "am  I  to 
be  affronted  by  every  mangy  hound  that  you  pick  up  in  the  high- 
way ?  I  insist  upon  your  sending  this  rascallion  about  his  busi- 
ness immediately."  "For  God's  sake,  sister,  compose  yourself," 
said  my  uncle,  "and  consider  that  the  poor  fellow  is  innocent  of 
any  intention  to  give  you  offence."  "Innocent  as  the  babe 
unborn,"  cried  Humphry.     "  I  see  it  plainly,"  exclaimed  this 


HUMPHRY   CLINKER  441 

implacable  maiden,  "he  acts  by  your  direction;  and  you  are 
resolved  to  support  him  in  his  impudence.  This  is  a  bad  return 
for  all  the  services  I  have  done  you  ;  for  nursing  you  in  your  sick- 
ness, managing  your  family,  and  keeping  you  from  ruining  your- 
self by  your  own  imprudence.  But  now  you  shall  part  with 
that  rascal  or  me,  upon  the  spot,  without  farther  loss  of  time ; 
and  the  world  shall  see  whether  you  have  more  regard  for  your 
own  flesh  and  blood,  or  for  a  beggarly  foundHng,  taken  from  the 
dunghill." 

Mr.  Bramble's  eyes  began  to  glisten,  and  his  teeth  to  chatter. 
''If  stated  fairly,"  said  he,  raising  his  voice,  "the  question  is, 
whether  I  have  spirit  to  shake  off  an  intolerable  yoke,  by  one  effort 
of  resolution,  or  meanness  enough  to  do  an  act  of  cruelty  and 
injustice,  to  gratify  the  rancour  of  a  capricious  woman.  Hark 
ye,  Mrs.  Tabitha  Bramble,  I  will  now  propose  an  alternative  in 
my  turn :  Either  discard  your  four-footed  favourite,  or  give  me 
leave  to  bid  you  eternally  adieu  :  for  I  am  determined  that  he 
and  I  shall  live  no  longer  under  the  same  roof ;  and  now  '  to  dinner 
with  what  appetite  you  may.'"  Thunderstruck  at  this  declara- 
tion, she  sat  down  in  a  corner ;  and,  after  a  pause  of  some  min- 
utes, "Sure  I  don't  understand  you.  Matt!"  said  she.  "And 
yet  I  spoke  in  plain  English,"  answered  the  squire,  with 
a  peremptory  look.  "Sir,"  resumed  this  virago,  effectually 
humbled,  "it  is  your  prerogative  to  command,  and  my  duty  to 
obey.  I  can't  dispose  of  the  dog  in  this  place ;  but  if  you'll 
allow  him  to  go  in  the  coach  to  London,  I  give  you  my  word  he 
shall  never  trouble  you  again." 

Her  brother,  entirely  disarmed  by  this  mild  reply,  declared, 
she  could  ask  him  nothing  in  reason  that  he  would  refuse ; 
adding,  "I  hope,  sister,  you  have  never  found  me  deficient  in 
natural  affection."  Mrs.  Tabitha  immediately  rose,  and,  throw- 
ing her  arms  about  his  neck,  kissed  him  on  the  cheek :  he  re- 
turned her  embrace  with  great  emotion.  Liddy  sobbed.  Win 
Jenkins  cackled.  Chowder  capered,  and  Clinker  skipped  about, 
rubbing  his  hands  for  joy  of  this  reconcihation. 

Concord  being  thus  restored,  we  finished  our  meal  with  com- 
fort ;  and  in  the  evening  arrived  at  London,  without  having  met 
with  any  other  adventure.     My  aunt  seems  to  be  much  mended 


442  TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 

by  the  hint  she  received  from  her  brother.  She  has  been  gra- 
ciously pleased  to  remove  her  displeasure  from  CKnker,  who  is 
now  retained  as  a  footman ;  and  in  a  day  or  two  will  make  his 
appearance  in  a  new  suit  of  livery ;  but  as  he  is  little  acquainted 
with  London,  we  have  taken  an  occasional  valet,  whom  I  intend 
hereafter  to  hire  as  my  own  servant.  We  lodge  in  Golden-square, 
at  the  house  of  one  Mrs.  Norton,  a  decent  sort  of  a  woman, 
who  takes  great  pains  to  make  us  all  easy.  My  uncle  proposes 
to  make  a  circuit  of  all  the  remarkable  scenes  of  this  metropolis, 
for  the  entertainment  of  his  pupils ;  but  as  you  and  I  are  already 
acquainted  with  most  of  those  he  will  visit,  and  with  some  others 
he  little  dreams  of,  I  shall  only  communicate  what  will  be  in 
some  measure  new  to  your  observation.  Remember  me  to  our 
Jesuitical  friends,  and  beHeve  me  ever, 

Dear  knight, 

Yours  affectionately, 
London,  May  24.  J.  Melford. 


EVELINA 
FANNY  BURNEY 

LETTER   I 
Lady  Howard  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Villars 

Howard  Grove,  Kent. 

Can  any  thing,  my  good  Sir,  be  more  painful  to  a  friendly 
mind  than  a  necessity  of  communicating  disagreeable  intelli- 
gence? Indeed,  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  determine,  whether 
the  relater  or  the  receiver  of  evil  tidings  is  most  to  be 
pitied. 

I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  Madame  Duval ;  she  is  totally 
at  a  loss  in  what  manner  to  behave  ;  she  seems  desirous  to  repair 
the  wrongs  she  has  done,  yet  wishes  the  world  to  believe  her 
blameless.  She  would  fain  cast  upon  another  the  odium  of  those 
misfortunes  for  which  she  alone  is  answerable.  Her  letter  is 
violent,  sometimes  abusive,  and  that  of  you !  —  you,  to  whom 
she  is  under  obligations  which  are  greater  even  than  her  faults, 
but  to  whose  advice  she  wickedly  imputes  all  the  sufferings  of 
her  much-injured  daughter,  the  late  Lady  Belmont.  The  chief 
purport  of  her  writing  I  will  acquaint  you  with ;  the  letter  itself 
is  not  worthy  your  notice. 

She  tells  me  that  she  has,  for  many  years  past,  been  in  con- 
tinual expectation  of  making  a  journey  to  England,  which  pre- 
vented her  writing  for  information  concerning  this  melancholy 
subject,  by  giving  her  hopes  of  making  personal  enquiries ;  but 
family  occurrences  have  still  detained  her  in  France,  which 
country  she  now  sees  no  prospect  of  quitting.  She  has,  there- 
fore, lately  used  her  utmost  endeavours  to  obtain  a  faithful 
account  of  whatever  related  to  her  ill-advised  daughter ;  the 
result  of  which  giving  her  some  reason  to  apprehend  that,  upon 

443 


444  FANNY  BURNEY 

her  death-bed,  she  bequeathed  an  infant  orphan  to  the  world, 
she  most  graciously  says,  that  if  you,  with  whom  she  understands 
the  child  is  placed,  will  procure  authentic  proofs  of  its  relation- 
ship to  her,  you  may  send  it  to  Paris,  where  she  will  properly 
provide  for  it. 

This  woman  is,  undoubtedly,  at  length,  self-convicted  of  her 
most  unnatural  behaviour :  it  is  evident,  from  her  writing,  that 
she  is  still  as  vulgar  and  illiterate  as  when  her  first  husband, 
Mr.  Evelyn,  had  the  weakness  to  marry  her ;  nor  does  she  at  all 
apologise  for  addressing  herself  to  me,  though  I  was  only  once  in 
her  company. 

Her  letter  has  excited  in  my  daughter  Mirvan,  a  strong  desire 
to  be  informed  of  the  motives  which  induced  Madame  Duval  to 
abandon  the  unfortunate  Lady  Belmont,  at  a  time  when  a 
mother's  protection  was  peculiarly  necessary  for  her  peace  and 
her  reputation.  Notwithstanding  I  was  personally  acquainted 
with  all  the  parties  concerned  in  that  affair,  the  subject  always 
appeared  of  too  delicate  a  nature  to  be  spoken  of  with  the  princi- 
pals ;  I  cannot,  therefore,  satisfy  Mrs.  Mirvan  otherwise  than 
by  applying  to  you. 

By  saying  that  you  may  send  the  child,  Madame  Duval 
aims  at  conferring,  where  she  most  owes  obligation.  I  pretend 
not  to  give  you  advice ;  you,  to  whose  generous  protection  this 
helpless  orphan  is  indebted  for  every  thing,  are  the  best  and  only 
judge  of  what  she  ought  to  do ;  but  I  am  much  concerned  at  the 
trouble  and  uneasiness  which  this  unworthy  woman  may  occa- 
sion you. 

My  daughter  and  my  grandchild  join  with  me  in  desiring  to 
be  most  kindly  remembered  to  the  amiable  girl ;  and  they  bid 
me  remind  you,  that  the  annual  visit  to  Howard  Grove,  which 
we  were  formerly  promised,  has  been  discontinued  for  more 
than  four  years. 

I  am,  dear  Sir,  with  great  regard, 

Your  most  obedient  friend  and  servant, 

M.  Howard. 


EVELINA  445 

LETTER  II 
Mr.  Villars  to  Lady  Howard 

Berry  Hill,  Dorsetshire. 

Your  Ladyship  did  but  too  well  foresee  the  perplexity  and 
uneasiness  of  which  Madame  Duval's  letter  has  been  productive. 
However,  I  ought  rather  to  be  thankful  that  I  have  so  many 
years  remained  unmolested,  than  repine  at  my  present  embar- 
rassment ;  since  it  proves,  at  least,  that  this  wretched  woman  is 
at  length  awakened  to  remorse. 

In  regard  to  my  answer,  I  must  humbly  request  your  Lady- 
ship to  write  to  this  effect :  "  that  I  would  not,  upon  any  account, 
intentionally  offend  Madame  Duval,  but  that  I  have  weighty, 
nay  unanswerable  reasons  for  detaining  her  grand-daughter 
at  present  in  England ;  the  principal  of  which  is,  that  it  was 
the  earnest  desire  of  one  to  whose  Will  she  owes  implicit  duty. 
Madame  Duval  may  be  assured  that  she  meets  with  the  utmost 
attention  and  tenderness ;  that  her  education,  however  short 
of  my  wishes,  almost  exceeds  my  abihties ;  and  I  flatter  myself, 
when  the  time  arrives  that  she  shall  pay  her  duty  to  her  grand- 
mother, Madame  Duval  will  find  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  what  has  been  done  for  her." 

Your  Ladyship  will  not,  I  am  sure,  be  surprised  at  this  an- 
swer. Madame  Duval  is  by  no  means  a  proper  companion  or 
guardian  for  a  young  woman :  she  is  at  once  uneducated  and 
unprincipled  ;  ungentle  in  temper,  and  unamiable  in  her  manners. 
I  have  long  known  that  she  has  persuaded  herself  to  harbour  an 
aversion  for  me  —  Unhappy  woman  !  I  can  only  regard  her  as 
an  object  of  pity  ! 

I  dare  not  hesitate  at  a  request  from  Mrs.  Mirvan,  yet,  in 
complying  with  it,  I  shall,  for  her  own  sake,  be  as  concise  as  I 
possibly  can ;  since  the  cruel  transactions  which  preceded  the 
birth  of  my  ward,  can  afford  no  entertainment  to  a  mind  so 
humane  as  her's. 

Your  Ladyship  may  probably  have  heard,  that  I  had  the 
honour  to  accompany  Mr.  Evelyn,  the  grandfather  of  my  young 
charge,  when  upon  his  travels,  in  the  capacity  of  tutor.  His 
unhappy  marriage,  immediately  upon  his  return  to   England, 


446 


FANNY  BURNEY 


with  Madame  Duval,  then  a  waiting-girl  at  a  tavern,  contrary 
to  the  advice  and  entreaties  of  all  his  friends,  among  whom  I 
was  myself  the  most  urgent,  induced  him  to  abandon  his  native 
land,  and  fix  his  abode  in  France.  Thither  he  was  followed  by 
shame  and  repentance ;  feehngs  which  his  heart  was  not  framed 
to  support :  for,  notwithstanding  he  had  been  too  weak  to  resist 
the  allurements  of  beauty,  which  nature,  though  a  niggard  to 
her  of  every  other  boon,  had  with  a  lavish  hand  bestowed  on  his 
wife;  yet  he  was  a  young  man  of  excellent  character,  and,  till 
thus  unaccountably  infatuated,  of  unblemished  conduct.  He 
survived  this  ill-judged  marriage  but  two  years.  Upon  his 
death-bed,  with  an  unsteady  hand,  he  wrote  me  the  following 
note : 

"My  friend  !  forget  your  resentment,  in  favour  of  your  human- 
ity;  —  a  father,  trembling  for  the  welfare  of  his  child,  bequeaths 
her  to  your  care.  —  O  Villars  !  hear  !  pity  !  and  reheve  me  !" 

Had  my  circumstances  permitted  me,  I  should  have  answered 
these  words  by  an  immediate  journey  to  Paris ;  but  I  was 
obliged  to  act  by  the  agency  of  a  friend,  who  was  upon  the  spot, 
and  present  at  the  opening  of  the  will. 

Mr.  Evelyn  left  to  me  a  legacy  of  a  thousand  pounds,  and  the 
sole  guardianship  of  his  daughter's  person  till  her  eighteenth 
year,  conjuring  me,  in  the  most  affectionate  terms,  to  take  the 
charge  of  her  education  till  she  was  able  to  act  with  propriety 
for  herself ;  but  in  regard  to  fortune,  he  left  her  wholly  dependent 
on  her  mother,  to  whose  tenderness  he  earnestly  recommended 
her. 

Thus,  though  he  would  not,  to  a  woman  low-bred  and  illiberal 
as  Mrs.  Evelyn,  trust  the  conduct  and  morals  of  his  daughter, 
he  nevertheless  thought  proper  to  secure  to  her  the  respect  and 
duty  which,  from  her  own  child,  were  certainly  her  due ;  but, 
unhappily,  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  mother,  on  her 
part,  could  fail  in  affection  or  justice. 

Miss  Evelyn,  Madam,  from  the  second  to  the  eighteenth  year 
of  her  life,  was  brought  up  under  my  care,  and,  except  when  at 
school,  under  my  roof.  I  need  not  speak  to  your  Ladyship  of 
the  virtues  of  that  excellent  young  creature.  She  loved  me  as 
her  father ;    nor  was  Mrs.  Villars  less  valued  by  her ;    while  to 


EVELINA 


447 


me  she  became  so  dear,  that  her  loss  was  little  less  afflicting 
than  that  which  I  have  since  sustained  of  Mrs.  Villars 
herself. 

At  that  period  of  her  life  we  parted  ;  her  mother,  then  married 
to  Monsieur  Duval,  sent  for  her  to  Paris.  How  often  have  I 
since  regretted  that  I  did  not  accompany  her  thither  !  protected 
and  supported  by  me,  the  misery  and  disgrace  which  awaited 
her,  might,  perhaps,  have  been  avoided.  But  —  to  be  brief, 
Madame  Duval,  at  the  instigation  of  her  husband,  earnestly, 
or  rather  tyrannically,  endeavoured  to  effect  a  union  between 
Miss  Evelyn  and  one  of  his  nephews.  And,  when  she  found 
her  power  inadequate  to  her  attempt,  enraged  at  her  non-com- 
pliance, she  treated  her  with  the  grossest  unkindness,  and 
threatened  her  with  poverty  and  ruin. 

Miss  Evelyn,  to  whom  wrath  and  violence  had  hitherto  been 
strangers,  soon  grew  weary  of  such  usage ;  and  rashly,  and 
without  a  witness,  consented  to  a  private  marriage  with  Sir 
John  Belmont,  a  very  profligate  young  man,  who  had  but  too 
successfully  found  means  to  insinuate  himself  into  her  favour. 
He  promised  to  conduct  her  to  England  —  he  did.  —  O,  Madam, 
you  know  the  rest !  —  Disappointed  of  the  fortune  he  expected, 
by  the  inexorable  rancour  of  the  Duvals,  he  infamously  burnt 
the  certificate  of  their  marriage,  and  denied  that  they  had  ever 
been  united  ! 

She  flew  to  me  for  protection.  With  what  mixed  transports 
of  joy  and  anguish  did  I  again  see  her!  By  my  advice,  she 
endeavoured  to  procure  proofs  of  her  marriage ;  —  but  in  vain  : 
her  creduHty  had  been  no  match  for  his  art. 

Everybody  believed  her  innocent,  from  the  guiltless  tenor  of 
her  unspotted  youth,  and  from  the  known  hbertinism  of  her 
barbarous  betrayer.  Yet  her  sufferings  were  too  acute  for  her 
tender  frame,  and  the  same  moment  that  gave  birth  to  her 
infant,  put  an  end  at  once  to  the  sorrows  and  the  life  of  its 
mother. 

The  rage  of  Madame  Duval  at  her  elopement,  abated  not 
while  this  injured  victim  of  cruelty  yet  drew  breath.  She  prob- 
ably intended,  in  time,  to  have  pardoned  her,  but  time  was  not 
allowed.     When  she  was  informed  of  her  death,  I  have  been 


448  FANNY   BURNEY 

told,  that  the  agonies  of  grief  and  remorse,  with  which  she  was 
seized,  occasioned  her  a  severe  fit  of  ilbiess.  But,  from  the  time 
of  her  recovery  to  the  date  of  her  letter  to  your  Ladyship,  I  had 
never  heard  that  she  manifested  any  desire  to  be  made  acquainted 
with  the  circumstances  which  attended  the  death  of  Lady  Bel- 
mont, and  the  birth  of  her  helpless  child. 

That  child,  Madam,  shall  never,  while  life  is  lent  me,  know  the 
loss  she  has  sustained.  I  have  cherished,  succoured,  and  sup- 
ported her  from  her  earhest  infancy  to  her  sixteenth  year ;  and 
so  amply  has  she  repaid  my  care  and  affection,  that  my  fondest 
wish  is  now  circumscribed  by  the  desire  of  bestowing  her  on  one 
who  may  be  sensible  of  her  worth,  and  then  sinking  to  eternal 
rest  in  her  arms. 

Thus  it  has  happened  that  the  education  of  the  father,  daughter, 
and  grand-daughter,  has  devolved  on  me.  What  infinite  misery 
have  the  two  first  caused  me  !  Should  the  fate  of  the  dear  sur- 
vivor be  equally  adverse,  how  wretched  will  be  the  end  of  my 
cares  —  the  end  of  my  days  ! 

Even  had  Madame  Duval  merited  the  charge  she  claims,  I 
fear  my  fortitude  would  have  been  unequal  to  such  a  parting ; 
but,  being  such  as  she  is,  not  only  my  affection,  but  my  humanity 
recoils,  at  the  barbarous  idea  of  deserting  the  sacred  trust  reposed 
in  me.  Indeed,  I  could  but  ill  support  her  former  yearly  visits 
to  the  respectable  mansion  at  Howard  Grove ;  pardon  me,  dear 
Madam,  and  do  not  think  me  insensible  of  the  honour  which 
your  Ladyship's  condescension  confers  upon  us  both ;  but  so 
deep  is  the  impression  which  the  misfortunes  of  her  mother  have 
made  on  my  heart,  that  she  does  not,  even  for  a  moment,  quit 
my  sight  without  exciting  apprehensions  and  terrors  which 
almost  overpower  me.  Such,  Madam,  is  my  tenderness,  and 
such  my  weakness  !  —  But  she  is  the  only  tie  I  have  upon  earth, 
and  I  trust  to  your  Ladyship's  goodness  not  to  judge  of  my  feel- 
ings with  severity. 

I  beg  leave  to  present  my  humble  respects  to  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Mirvan ;    and  have  the  honour  to  be. 

Madam,  your  Ladyship's  most  obedient 
and  most  humble  servant, 

Arthur  Villars. 


EVELINA  449 

LETTER   III 

[Written  some  months  ajler  the  last.] 

Lady  Howard  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Villars 

Howard  Grove,  March  8. 

Dear  and  Rev.  Sir,  —  Your  last  letter  gave  me  infinite 
pleasure :  after  so  long  and  tedious  an  illness,  how  grateful  to 
yourself  and  to  your  friends  must  be  your  returning  health  ! 
You  have  the  hearty  wishes  of  every  individual  of  this  place  for 
its  continuance  and  increase. 

Will  you  not  think  I  take  advantage  of  your  acknowledged 
recovery,  if  I  once  more  venture  to  mention  your  pupil  and 
Howard  Grove  together  ?  Yet  you  must  remember  the  patience 
with  which  we  submitted  to  your  desire  of  not  parting  with  her 
during  the  bad  state  of  your  health,  though  it  was  with  much 
reluctance  we  forbore  to  solicit  her  company.  My  grand- 
daughter, in  particular,  has  scarce  been  able  to  repress  her 
eagerness  to  again  meet  the  friend  of  her  infancy ;  and  for  my 
own  part,  it  is  very  strongly  my  wish  to  manifest  the  regard  I 
had  for  the  unfortunate  Lady  Belmont,  by  proving  serviceable 
to  her  child ;  which  seems  to  me  the  best  respect  that  can  be 
paid  to  her  memory.  Permit  me,  therefore,  to  lay  before  you 
a  plan  which  Mrs.  Mirvan  and  I  have  formed,  in  consequence 
of  your  restoration  to  health. 

I  would  not  frighten  you ;  —  but  do  you  think  you  could 
bear  to  part  with  your  young  companion  for  two  or  three  months  ? 
Mrs.  Mirvan  proposes  to  spend  the  ensuing  spring  in  London, 
whither,  for  the  first  time,  my  grandchild  will  accompany  her. 
Now,  my  good  friend,  it  is  very  earnestly  their  wish  to  enlarge 
and  enliven  their  party  by  the  addition  of  your  amiable  ward, 
who  would  share,  equally  with  her  own  daughter,  the  care  and 
attention  of  Mrs.  Mirvan.  Do  not  start  at  this  proposal ;  it  is 
time  that  she  should  see  something  of  the  world.  When  young 
people  are  too  rigidly  sequestered  from  it,  their  lively  and  roman- 
tic imaginations  paint  it  to  them  as  a  paradise  of  which  they 
have  been  beguiled  ;  but  when  they  are  shown  it  properly,  and  in 
due  time,  they  see  it  such  as  it  really  is,  equally  shared  by  pain 
and  pleasure,  hope  and  disappointment. 


450 


FANNY   BURNEY 


You  have  nothing  to  apprehend  from  her  meeting  Sir  John 
Belmont,  as  that  abandoned  man  is  now  abroad,  and  not  expected 
home  this  year. 

Well,  my  good  Sir,  what  say  you  to  our  scheme  ?  I  hope  it 
will  meet  with  your  approbation  ;  but  if  it  should  not,  be  assured 
I  can  never  object  to  any  decision  of  one  who  is  so  much  re- 
spected and  esteemed  as  Mr.  Villars,  by 

His  most  faithful  humble  servant, 
M.  Howard. 

LETTER   IV 
Mr.  Villars  to  Lady  Howard 

Berry  Hill,  March  12. 

I  AM  grieved.  Madam,  to  appear  obstinate,  and  I  blush  to 
incur  the  imputation  of  selfishness.  In  detaining  my  young 
charge  thus  long  with  myself  in  the  country,  I  consulted  not 
solely  my  own  inclination.  Destined,  in  all  probability,  to 
possess  a  very  moderate  fortune,  I  wished  to  contract  her  views 
to  something  within  it.  The  mind  is  but  too  naturally  prone 
to  pleasure,  but  too  easily  yielded  to  dissipation  :  it  has  been 
my  study  to  guard  her  against  their  delusions,  by  preparing  her 
to  expect,  —  and  to  despise  them.  But  the  time  draws  on  for 
experience  and  observation  to  take  the  place  of  instruction : 
if  I  have,  in  some  measure,  rendered  her  capable  of  using  one 
with  discretion,  and  making  the  other  with  improvement,  I  shall 
rejoice  myself  with  the  assurance  of  having  largely  contributed 
to  her  welfare.  She  is  now  of  an  age  that  happiness  is  eager  to 
attend,  —  let  her  then  enjoy  it !  I  commit  her  to  the  protec- 
tion of  your  Ladyship,  and  only  hope  she  may  be  found  worthy 
half  the  goodness  I  am  satisfied  she  will  meet  with  at  your  hos- 
pitable mansion. 

Thus  far.  Madam,  I  chearfully  submit  to  your  desire.  In 
confiding  my  ward  to  the  care  of  Lady  Howard,  I  can  feel  no 
uneasiness  from  her  absence,  but  what  will  arise  from  the  loss 
of  her  company,  since  I  shall  be  as  well  convinced  of  her  safety, 
as  if  she  were  under  my  own  roof ;  —  but,  can  your  Ladyship 
be  serious  in  proposing  to  introduce  her  to  the  gaieties  of  a  Lon- 
don Hfe  ?     Permit  me  to  ask,  for  what  end,  or  what  purpose  ? 


EVELINA  451 

A  youthful  mind  is  seldom  totally  free  from  ambition ;  to  curb 
that,  is  the  first  step  to  contentment,  since  to  diminish  expec- 
tation, is  to  increase  enjoyment.  I  apprehend  nothing  more 
than  too  much  raising  her  hopes  and  her  views,  which  the  natu- 
ral vivacity  of  her  disposition  would  render  but  too  easy  to  effect. 
The  town  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Mirvan  are  all  in  the  circle  of 
high  Hfe ;  this  artless  young  creature,  with  too  much  beauty  to 
escape  notice,  has  too  much  sensibility  to  be  indifferent  to  it ; 
but  she  has  too  httle  wealth  to  be  sought  with  propriety  by  men 
of  the  fashionable  world. 

Consider,  Madam,  the  peculiar  cruelty  of  her  situation ;  only 
child  of  a  wealthy  Baronet,  whose  person  she  has  never  seen, 
whose  character  she  has  reason  to  abhor,  and  whose  name  she 
is  forbidden  to  claim ;  entitled  as  she  is  to  lawfully  inherit  his 
fortune  and  estate,  is  there  any  probabihty  that  he  will  properly 
own  her  ?  And  while  he  continues  to  persevere  in  disavowing 
his  marriage  with  Miss  Evelyn,  she  shall  never,  at  the  expence 
of  her  mother's  honour,  receive  a  part  of  her  right,  as  the  dona- 
tion of  his  bounty. 

And  as  to  Mr.  Evelyn's  estate,  I  have  no  doubt  but  that 
Madame  Duval  and  her  relations  will  dispose  of  it  among 
themselves. 

It  seems,  therefore,  as  if  this  deserted  child,  though  legally 
heiress  of  two  large  fortunes,  must  owe  all  her  rational  expec- 
tations to  adoption  and  friendship.  Yet  her  income  will  be 
such  as  may  make  her  happy,  if  she  is  disposed  to  be  so  in  pri- 
vate life ;  though  it  will  by  no  means  allow  her  to  enjoy  the 
luxury  of  a  London  fine  lady. 

Let  Miss  Mirvan,  then.  Madam,  shine  in  all  the  splendour 
of  high  Ufe ;  but  suffer  my  child  still  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of 
humble  retirement,  with  a  mind  to  which  greater  views  are 
unknown. 

I  hope  this  reasoning  will  be  honoured  with  your  approbation ; 
and  I  have  yet  another  motive  which  has  some  weight  with  me ; 
I  would  not  willingly  give  offence  to  any  human  being,  and  surely 
Madame  Duval  might  accuse  me  of  injustice,  if,  while  I  refuse 
to  let  her  grand-daughter  wait  upon  her,  I  consent  that  she 
should  join  a  party  of  pleasure  to  London. 


452  FANNY   BURNEY 

In  sending  her  to  Howard  Grove,  not  one  of  these  scruples 
arise;  and  therefore  Mrs.  Clinton,  a  most  worthy  woman, 
formerly  her  nurse,  and  now  my  housekeeper,  shall  attend  her 
thither  next  week. 

Though  I  have  always  called  her  by  the  name  of  Anville,  and 
reported  in  this  neighbourhood,  that  her  father,  my  intimate 
friend,  left  her  to  my  guardianship,  yet  I  have  thought  it  neces- 
sary she  should  herself  be  acquainted  with  the  melancholy  cir- 
cumstances attending  her  birth :  for,  though  I  am  very  desirous 
of  guarding  her  from  curiosity  and  impertinence,  by  concealing 
her  name,  family,  and  story,  yet  I  would  not  leave  it  in  the  power 
of  chance,  to  shock  her  gentle  nature  with  a  tale  of  so  much 
sorrow. 

You  must  not,  Madam,  expect  too  much  from  my  pupil.  She 
is  quite  a  little  rustic,  and  knows  nothing  of  the  world ;  and 
though  her  education  has  been  the  best  I  could  bestow  in  this 
retired  place,  to  which  Dorchester,  the  nearest  town,  is  seven 
miles  distant,  yet  I  shall  not  be  surprised  if  you  should  discover 
in  her  a  thousand  deficiencies  of  which  I  have  never  dreamt. 
She  must  be  very  much  altered  since  she  was  last  at  Howard 
Grove,  —  but  I  will  say  nothing  of  her ;  I  leave  her  to  your 
Ladyship's  own  observations,  of  which  I  beg  a  faithful  relation ; 
and  am. 

Dear  Madam,  with  great  respect, 

Your  obedient  and  most  humble  servant, 

Arthur  Villars. 

letter  viii 

Evelina  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Villars 

Howard  Grove,  March  26. 
This  house  seems  to  be  the  house  of  joy ;  every  face  wears 
a  smile,  and  a  laugh  is  at  every  body's  service.  It  is  quite  amus- 
ing to  walk  about,  and  see  the  general  confusion ;  a  room  lead- 
ing to  the  garden  is  fitting  up  for  Captain  Mir  van's  study.  Lady 
Howard  does  not  sit  a  moment  in  a  place  ;  Miss  Mirvan  is  mak- 
ing caps ;  every  body  so  busy  !  —  such  flying  from  room  to  room  ! 
—  so  many  orders  given,  and  retracted,  and  given  again  !  — 
nothing  but  hurry  and  perturbation. 


EVELINA  453 

Well  but,  my  dear  Sir,  I  am  desired  to  make  a  request  to  you. 
I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  an  incroacher ;  Lady  Howard 
insists  upon  my  writing  !  —  yet  I  hardly  know  how  to  go  on ; 
a  petition  implies  a  want,  —  and  have  you  left  me  one  ?  No, 
indeed. 

I  am  half  ashamed  of  myself  for  beginning  this  letter.  But 
these  dear  ladies  are  so  pressing  —  I  cannot,  for  my  life,  resist 
wishing  for  the  pleasures  they  offer  me,  —  provided  you  do  not 
disapprove  of  them. 

They  are  to  make  a  very  short  stay  in  town.  The  Captain 
will  meet  them  in  a  day  or  two.  Mrs.  Mirvan  and  her  sweet 
daughter  both  go ;  —  what  a  happy  party  !  Yet  I  am  not  i^ery 
eager  to  accompany  them :  at  least,  I  shall  be  contented  to  re- 
main where  I  am,  if  you  desire  that  I  should. 

Assured,  my  dearest  Sir,  of  your  go.odness,  your  bounty,  and 
your  indulgent  kindness,  ought  I  to  form  a  wish  that  has  not 
your  sanction  ?  Decide  for  me,  therefore,  without  the  least 
apprehension  that  I  shall  be  uneasy,  or  discontented.  While 
I  am  yet  in  suspense,  perhaps  I  may  hope^  but  I  am  most  certain, 
that  when  you  have  once  determined,  I  shall  not  repine. 

They  tell  me  that  London  is  now  in  full  splendour.  Two 
Play-houses  are  open,  —  the  Opera  House,  —  Ranelagh,  —  and 
the  Pantheon.  —  You  see  I  have  learned  all  their  names.  How- 
ever, pray  don't  suppose  that  I  make  any  point  of  going,  for  I 
shall  hardly  sigh  to  see  them  depart  without  me  ;  though  I  shall 
probably  never  meet  with  such  another  opportunity.  And,  in- 
deed, their  domestic  happiness  will  be  so  great,  —  it  is  natural 
to  wish  to  partake  of  it. 

I  believe  I  am  bewitched  !  I  made  a  resolution  when  I  began, 
that  I  would  not  be  urgent ;  but  my  pen  —  or  rather  my  thoughts, 
will  not  suffer  me  to  keep  it  —  for  I  acknowledge,  I  must  acknowl- 
edge, I  cannot  help  wishing  for  your  permission. 

I  almost  repent  already  that  I  have  made  this  confession ; 
pray  forget  that  you  have  read  it,  if  this  journey  is  displeasing 
to  you.  But  I  will  not  write  any  longer ;  for  the  more  I  think 
of  this  affair,  the  less  indifferent  to  it  I  find  myself. 

Adieu,  my  most  honoured,  most  reverenced,  most  beloved 
father  !  for  by  what  other  name  can  I  call  you  ?     I  have  no 


454 


FANNY  BURNEY 


happiness  or  sorrow,  no  hope  or  fear,  but  what  your  kindness 
bestows,  or  your  displeasure  may  cause.  You  will  not,  I  am  sure, 
send  a  refusal  without  reasons  unanswerable,  and  therefore  I 
shall  chearfully  acquiesce.  Yet  I  hope  —  I  hope  you  will  be 
able  to  permit  me  to  go  ! 

I  am,  with  the  utmost  affection. 
Gratitude,  and  duty,  your 

Evelina  . 

I  cannot  to  you  sign  Anville,  and  what  other  name  may  I 
claim  ? 

LETTER  X 

Evelina  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Villars 

Queen- Ann-Street,  London,  Saturday,  April  2. 

This  moment  arrived.  Just  going  to  Drury-Lane  Theatre. 
The  celebrated  Mr.  Garrick  performs  Ranger.  I  am  quite  in 
extacy.  So  is  Miss  Mirvan.  How  fortunate,  that  he  should 
happen  to  play  !  We  would  not  let  Mrs.  Mirvan  rest  till  she 
consented  to  go  ;  her  chief  objection  was  to  our  dress,  for  we  have 
had  no  time  to  Londonize  ourselves  ;  but  we  teized  her  into  com- 
pHance,  and  so  we  are  to  sit  in  some  obscure  place,  that  she  may 
not  be  seen.  As  to  me,  I  should  be  alike  unknown  in  the  most 
conspicuous  or  most  private  part  of  the  house. 

I  can  write  no  more  now.  I  have  hardly  time  to  breathe  — 
only  just  this,  the  houses  and  streets  are  not  quite  so  superb  as 
I  expected.  However,  I  have  seen  nothing  yet,  so  I  ought  not 
to  judge. 

Well,  adieu,  my  dearest  Sir,  for  the  present ;  I  could  not  for- 
bear writing  a  few  words  instantly  on  my  arrival ;  though  I 
suppose  my  letter  of  thanks  for  your  consent  is  still  on  the  road. 

Saturday  night. 

O  my  dear  Sir,  in  what  raptures  am  I  returned  !  Well  may 
Mr.  Garrick  be  so  celebrated,  so  universally  admired  —  I  had 
not  any  idea  of  so  great  a  performer. 

Such  ease  !  such  vivacity  in  his  manner  !  such  grace  in  his 
motions  !  such  fire  and  meaning  in  his  eyes  !  —  I  could  hardly 
believe  he  had  studied  a  written  part,  for  every  word  seemed 
to  be  uttered  from  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 


EVELINA  455 

His  action  —  at  once  so  graceful  and  so  free  !  —  his  voice  — 
so  clear,  so  melodious,  yet  so  wonderfully  various  in  its  tones 
—  such  animation  !  —  every  look  speaks ! 

I  would  have  given  the  world  to  have  had  the  whole  play 
acted  over  again.  And  when  he  danced  —  O  how  I  envied 
Clarinda  !  I  almost  wished  to  have  jumped  on  the  stage  and 
joined  them. 

I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  mad,  so  I  won't  say  any  more ; 
yet  I  really  believe  Mr.  Garrick  would  make  you  mad  too,  if 
you  could  see  him.  I  intend  to  ask  Mrs.  Mirvan  to  go  to  the 
play  every  night  while  we  stay  in  town.  She  is  extremely  kind 
to  me,  and  Maria,  her  charming  daughter,  is  the  sweetest  girl 
in  the  world. 

I  shall  write  to  you  every  evening  all  that  passes  in  the  day, 
and  that  in  the  same  manner  as,  if  I  could  see,  I  should  tell  you. 


Sunday. 

This  morning  we  went  to  Portland  chapel,  and  afterwards  we 
walked  in  the  Mall  of  St.  James's  Park,  which  by  no  means 
answered  my  expectations :  it  is  a  long  straight  walk,  of  dirty 
gravel,  very  uneasy  to  the  feet ;  and  at  each  end,  instead  of  an 
open  prospect,  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  houses  built  of  brick. 
When  Mrs.  Mirvan  pointed  out  the  Palace  to  me  —  I  think  I 
was  never  much  more  surprised. 

However,  the  walk  was  very  agreeable  to  us ;  everybody 
looked  gay,  and  seemed  pleased,  —  and  the  ladies  were  so  much 
dressed,  that  Miss  Mirvan  and  I  could  do  nothing  but  look  at 
them.  Mrs.  Mirvan  met  several  of  her  friends.  No  wonder, 
for  I  never  saw  so  many  people  assembled  together  before.  I 
looked  about  for  some  of  my  acquaintance,  but  in  vain,  for  I  saw 
not  one  person  that  I  knew,  which  is  very  odd,  for  all  the  world 
seemed  there. 

Mrs.  Mirvan  says  we  are  not  to  walk  in  the  Park  again  next 
Sunday,  even  if  we  should  be  in  town,  because  there  is  better 
company  in  Kensington  Gardens.  But  really,  if  you  had  seen 
how  much  everybody  was  dressed,  you  would  not  think  that 
possible. 


456  FANNY   BURNEY 

Monday. 

We  are  to  go  this  evening  to  a  private  ball,  given  by  Mrs. 
Stanley,  a  very  fashionable  lady  of  Mrs.  Mirvan's  acquaintance. 

We  have  been  a  shopping,  as  Mrs.  Mirvan  calls  it,  all  this 
morning,  to  buy  silks,  caps,  gauzes,  and  so  forth. 

The  shops  are  really  very  entertaining,  especially  the  mercers ; 
there  seem  to  be  six  or  seven  men  belonging  to  each  shop,  and 
every  one  took  care,  by  bowing  and  smirking,  to  be  noticed ; 
we  were  conducted  from  one  to  another,  and  carried  from  room 
to  room,  with  so  much  ceremony,  that  at  first  I  was  almost 
afraid  to  go  on. 

I  thought  I  should  never  have  chosen  a  silk,  for  they  produced 
so  many,  I  knew  not  which  to  fix  upon,  and  they  recommended 
them  all  so  strongly,  that  I  fancy  they  thought  I  only  wanted 
persuasion  to  buy  everything  they  shewed  me.  And,  indeed,  they 
took  so  much  trouble,  that  I  was  almost  ashamed  I  could  not. 

At  the  milliners,  the  ladies  we  met  were  so  much  dressed,  that 
I  should  rather  have  imagined  they  were  making  visits  than 
purchases.  But  what  most  diverted  [me]  was,  that  we  were 
more  frequently  served  by  men  than  by  women  ;  and  such  men  ! 
so  finical,  so  affected  !  they  seemed  to  understand  every  part  of 
a  woman's  dress  better  than  we  do  ourselves ;  and  they  recom- 
mended caps  and  ribbands  with  an  air  of  so  much  importance, 
that  I  wished  'to  ask  them  how  long  they  had  left  off  wearing 
them  ! 

The  dispatch  with  which  they  work  in  these  great  shops  is 
amazing,  for  they  have  promised  me  a  compleat  suit  of  linen 
against  the  evening. 

I  have  just  had  my  hair  dressed.  You  can't  think  how  oddly 
my  head  feels ;  full  of  powder  and  black  pins,  and  a  great  cushion 
on  the  top  of  it.  I  believe  you  would  hardly  know  me,  for  my 
face  looks  quite  different  to  what  it  did  before  my  hair  was 
dressed.  When  I  shall  be  able  to  make  use  of  a  comb  for  myself 
I  cannot  tell,  for  my  hair  is  so  much  entangled,  frizled  they  call 
it,  that  I  fear  it  will  be  very  difficult. 

I  am  half  afraid  of  this  ball  to-night,  for,  you  know,  I  have 
never  danced  but  at  school ;  however.  Miss  Mirvan  says  there 
is  nothing  in  it.     Yet  I  wish  it  was  over. 


EVELINA  457 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir ;   pray  excuse  the  wretched  stuff  I  write, 
perhaps  I  may  improve    by  being  in  this  town,  and  then  my 
letters  will  be  less  unworthy  your  reading.      Meantime  I  am, 
Your  dutiful  and  affectionate,  though  unpolished, 

Evelina. 

Poor  Miss  Mirvan  cannot  wear  one  of  the  caps  she  made, 
because  they  dress  her  hair  too  large  for  them. 

LETTER  XI 

Evelina  in  continuation 

Queen- Ann-Street,  April  5,  Tuesday  Morning. 

I  HAVE  a  vast  deal  to  say,  and  shall  give  all  this  morning  to 
my  pen.  As  to  my  plan  of  writing  every  evening  the  adventures 
of  the  day,  I  find  it  impracticable ;  for  the  diversions  here  are 
so  very  late,  that  if  I  begin  my  letters  after  them,  I  could  not 
go  to  bed  at  all. 

We  past  a  most  extraordinary  evening.  A  private  ball  this 
was  called,  so  I  expected  to  have  seen  about  four  or  five  couple ; 
but  Lord  !  my  dear  Sir,  I  believe  I  saw  half  the  world !  Two  very 
large  rooms  were  full  of  company ;  in  one,  were  cards  for  the 
elderly  ladies,  and  in  the  other,  were  the  dancers.  My  mamma 
Mirvan,  for  she  always  calls  me  her  child,  said  she  would  sit 
with  Maria  and  me  till  we  were  provided  with  partners,  and 
then  join  the  card-players. 

The  gentlemen,  as  they  passed  and  repassed,  looked  as  if 
they  thought  we  were  quite  at  their  disposal,  and  only  waiting 
for  the  honour  of  their  commands ;  and  they  sauntered  about, 
in  a  careless  indolent  manner,  as  if  with  a  view  to  keep  us  in 
suspense.  I  don't  speak  of  this  in  regard  to  Miss  Mirvan  and 
myself  only,  but  to  the  ladies  in  general ;  and  I  thought  it  so 
provoking,  that  I  determined,  in  my  own  mind,  that,  far  from 
humouring  such  airs,  I  would  rather  not  dance  at  all,  than  with 
any  one  who  should  seem  to  think  me  ready  to  accept  the  first 
partner  who  would  condescend  to  take  me. 

Not  long  after,  a  young  man,  who  had  for  some  time  looked 
at  us  with  a  kind  of  negligent  impertinence,  advanced,  on  tip- 
toe, towards  me ;   he  had  a  set  smile  on  his  face,  and  his  dress 


458  FANNY   BURNEY 

was  so  foppish,  that  I  really  believe  he  even  wished  to  be  stared 
at ;   and  yet  he  was  very  ugly. 

Bowing  almost  to  the  ground,  with  a  sort  of  swing,  and  waving 
his  hand  with  the  greatest  conceit,  after  a  short  and  silly  pause, 
he  said,  "Madam  —  may  I  presume?"  —  and  stopt,  offering 
to  take  my  hand.  I  drew  it  back,  but  could  scarce  forbear 
laughing.  "Allow  me.  Madam,"  (continued  he,  affectedly 
breaking  off  every  half  moment)  "the  honour  and  happiness  — 
if  I  am  not  so  unhappy  as  to  address  you  too  late  —  to  have  the 
happiness  and  honour  — " 

Again  he  would  have  taken  my  hand,  but,  bowing  my  head, 
I  begged  to  be  excused,  and  turned  to  Miss  Mirvan  to  conceal 
my  laughter.  He  then  desired  to  know  if  I  had  already  engaged 
myself  to  some  more  fortunate  man  ?  I  said  No,  and  that  I 
beheved  I  should  not  dance  at  all.  He  would  keep  himself,  he 
told  me,  disengaged,  in  hopes  I  should  relent ;  and  then,  uttering 
some  ridiculous  speeches  of  sorrow  and  disappointment,  though 
his  face  still  wore  the  same  invariable  smile,  he  retreated. 

It  so  happened,  as  we  have  since  recollected,  that  during  this 
little  dialogue,  Mrs.  Mirvan  was  conversing  with  the  lady  of  the 
house.  And  very  soon  after  another  gentleman,  who  seemed 
about  six-and- twenty  years  old,  gayly,  but  not  foppishly,  dressed, 
and  indeed  extremely  handsome,  with  an  air  of  mixed  politeness 
and  gallantry,  desired  to  know  if  I  was  engaged,  or  would  honour 
him  with  my  hand.  So  he  was  pleased  to  say,  though  I  am  sure 
I  know  not  what  honour  he  could  receive  from  me ;  but  these 
sort  of  expressions,  I  find,  are  used  as  words  of  course,  without 
any  distinction  of  persons,  or  study  of  propriety. 

Well,  I  bowed,  and  I  am  sure  I  coloured ;  for  indeed  I  was 
frightened  at  the  thoughts  of  dancing  before  so  many  people,  all 
strangers,  and,  which  was  worse,  with  a  stranger ;  however,  that 
was  unavoidable,  for  though  I  looked  round  the  room  several 
times,  I  could  not  see  one  person  that  I  knew.  And  so,  he  took 
my  hand,  and  led  me  to  join  in  the  dance. 

The  minuets  were  over  before  we  arrived,  for  we  were  kept  late 
by  the  milliners  making  us  wait  for  our  things. 

He  seemed  very  desirous  of  entering  into  conversation  with 
me  ;  but  I  was  seized  with  such  a  panic,  that  I  could  hardly  speak 


EVELINA 


459 


a  word,  and  nothing  but  the  shame  of  so  soon  changing  my  mind, 
prevented  my  returning  to  my  seat,  and  declining  to  dance  at 
all. 

He  appeared  to  be  surprised  at  my  terror,  which  I  believe  was 
but  too  apparent :  however,  he  asked  no  questions,  though  I 
fear  he  must  think  it  very  strange ;  for  I  did  not  choose  to  tell 
him  it  was  owing  to  my  never  before  dancing  but  with  a  school- 
girl. 

His  conversation  was  sensible  and  spirited ;  his  air  and  ad- 
dress were  open  and  noble ;  his  manners  gentle,  attentive,  and 
infinitely  engaging ;  his  person  is  all  elegance,  and  his  counte- 
nance, the  most  animated  and  expressive  I  have  ever  seen. 

In  a  short  time  we  were  joined  by  Miss  Mirvan,  who  stood 
next  couple  to  us.  But  how  was  I  startled,  when  she  whispered 
me  that  my  partner  was  a  nobleman  !  This  gave  me  a  new 
alarm;  how  will  he  be  provoked,  thought  I,  when  he  finds  what 
a  simple  rustic  he  has  honoured  with  his  choice  !  one  whose 
ignorance  of  the  world  makes  her  perpetually  fear  doing  some- 
thing wrong  ! 

That  he  should  be  so  much  my  superior  every  way,  quite  dis- 
concerted me ;  and  you  will  suppose  my  spirits  were  not  much 
raised,  when  I  heard  a  lady,  in  passing  us,  say,  "This  is  the  most 
difficult  dance  I  ever  saw." 

"O  dear,  then,"  cried  Maria  to  her  partner,  "with  your  leave, 
I'll  sit  down  till  the  next." 

"So  will  I  too,  then,"  cried  I,  "for  I  am  sure  I  can  hardly 
stand." 

"But  you  must  speak  to  your  partner  first,"  answered  she; 
for  he  had  turned  aside  to  talk  with  some  gentlemen.  However, 
I  had  not  sufficient  courage  to  address  him,  and  so  away  we  all 
three  tript,  and  seated  ourselves  at  another  end  of  the  room. 

But,  unfortunately  for  me,  Miss  Mirvan  soon  after  suffered 
herself  to  be  prevailed  upon  to  attempt  the  dance ;  and  just  as 
she  rose  to  go,  she  cried,  "My  dear,  yonder  is  your  partner.  Lord 
Orville,  walking  about  the  room  in  search  of  you." 

"Don't  leave  me  then,  dear  girl!"  cried  I;  but  she  was 
obliged  to  go.  And  now  I  was  more  uneasy  than  ever;  I  would 
have  given  the  world  to  have  seen  Mrs.  Mirvan,  and  begged 


46o  FANNY  BURNEY 

of  her  to  make  my  apologies;  for  what,  thought  I,  can  I  pos- 
sibly say  to  him  in  excuse  for  running  away  ?  he  must  either 
conclude  me  a  fool,  or  half  mad ;  for  any  one  brought  up  in  the 
great  world,  and  accustomed  to  its  ways,  can  have  no  idea  of 
such  sort  of  fears  as  mine. 

My  confusion  encreased  when  I  observed  that  he  was  every 
where  seeking  me,  with  apparent  perplexity  and  surprise ;  but 
when,  at  last,  I  saw  him  move  towards  the  place  where  I  sat, 
I  was  ready  to  sink  with  shame  and  distress.  I  found  it  abso- 
lutely impossible  to  keep  my  seat,  because  I  could  not  think  of 
a  word  to  say  for  myself,  and  so  I  rose^  and  walked  hastily 
towards  the  card-room,  resolving  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Mirvan  the 
rest  of  the  evening,  and  not  to  dance  at  all.  But  before  I  could 
find  her,  Lord  Orville  saw  and  approached  me. 

He  begged  to  know  if  I  was  not  well  ?  You  may  easily  imagine 
how  much  I  was  embarrassed.  I  made  no  answer,  but  hung 
my  head,  Hke  a  fool,  and  looked  on  my  fan. 

He  then,  with  an  air  the  most  respectfully  serious,  asked  if  he 
had  been  so  unhappy  as  to  offend  me  ? 

"No,  indeed!"  cried  I:  and,  in  hopes  of  changing  the  dis- 
course, and  preventing  his  further  inquiries,  I  desired  to  know 
if  he  had  seen  the  young  lady  who  had  been  conversing  with  me  ? 

No ;  —  but  would  I  honour  him  with  any  commands  to  her  ? 

"O,  by  no  means  !" 

Was  there  any  other  person  with  whom  I  wished  to  speak  ? 

I  said  no,  before  I  knew  I  had  answered  at  all. 

Should  he  have  the  pleasure  of  bringing  me  any  refreshment  ? 

I  bowed,  almost  involuntarily.     And  away  he  flew. 

I  was  quite  ashamed  of  being  so  troublesome,  and  so  much 
above  myself  as  these  seeming  airs  made  me  appear ;  but  indeed 
I  was  too  much  confused  to  think  or  act  with  any  consistency. 

If  he  had  not  been  swift  as  lightning,  I  don't  know  whether 
I  should  not  have  stolen  away  again ;  but  he  returned  in  a 
moment.  When  I  had  drunk  a  glass  of  lemonade,  he  hoped,  he 
said,  that  I  would  again  honour  him  with  my  hand  as  a  new  dance 
was  just  begun.  I  had  not  the  presence  of  mind  to  say  a  single 
word,  and  so  I  let  him  once  more  lead  me  to  the  place  I  had  left. 

Shocked  to  find  how  silly,  how  childish  a  part  I  had  acted. 


EVELINA  461 

my  former  fears  of  dancing  before  such  a  company,  and  with 
such  a  partner,  returned  more  forcibly  than  ever.  I  suppose  he 
perceived  my  uneasiness,  for  he  intreated  me  to  sit  down  again, 
if  dancing  was  disagreeable  to  me.  But  I  was  quite  satisfied 
with  the  folly  I  had  already  shewn,  and  therefore  declined  his 
offer,  tho'  I  was  really  scarce  able  to  stand. 

Under  such  conscious  disadvantages,  you  may  easily  imagine, 
my  dear  Sir,  how  ill  I  acquitted  myself.  But,  though  I  both 
expected  and  deserved  to  find  him  very  much  mortified  and  dis- 
pleased at  his  ill  fortune  in  the  choice  he  had  made,  yet,  to  my 
very  great  relief,  he  appeared  to  be  even  contented,  and  very 
much  assisted  and  encouraged  me.  These  people  in  high  Hfe 
have  too  much  presence  of  mind,  I  believe,  to  seem  disconcerted, 
or  out  of  humour,  however  they  may  feel :  for  had  I  been  the 
person  of  the  most  consequence  in  the  room,  I  could  not  have 
met  with  more  attention  and  respect. 

When  the  dance  was  over,  seeing  me  still  very  much  flurried, 
he  led  me  to  a  seat,  saying  that  he  would  not  suffer  me  to  fatigue 
myself  from  poHteness. 

And  then,  if  my  capacity,  or  even  if  my  spirits  had  been  better, 
in  how  animated  a  conversation  might  I  have  been  engaged  ! 
It  was  then  I  saw  that  the  rank  of  Lord  Orville  was  his  least 
recommendation,  his  understanding  and  his  manners  being  far 
more  distinguished.  His  remarks  upon  the  company  in  general 
were  so  apt,  so  just,  so  Hvely,  I  am  almost  surprised  myself  that 
they  did  not  re-animate  me ;  but  indeed  I  was  too  well  convinced 
of  the  ridiculous  part  I  had  myself  played  before  so  nice  an 
observer,  to  be  able  to  enjoy  his  pleasantry :  so  self-compassion 
gave  me  feeling  for  others.  Yet  I  had  not  the  courage  to  attempt 
either  to  defend  them,  or  to  rally  in  my  turn,  but  listened  to  him 
in  silent  embarrassment. 

When  he  found  this,  he  changed  the  subject,  and  talked  of 
public  places,  and  public  performers ;  but  he  soon  discovered 
that  I  was  totally  ignorant  of  them. 

He  then,  very  ingeniously,  turned  the  discourse  to  the  amuse- 
ments and  occupations  of  the  country. 

It  now  struck  me,  that  he  was  resolved  to  try  whether  or 
not  I  was  capable  of  talking  upon  any  subject.     This  put  so  great 


462  FANNY  BURNEY 

a  constraint  upon  my  thoughts,  that  I  was  unable  to  go  further 
than  a  monosyllable,  and  not  even  so  far,  when  I  could  possibly 
avoid  it. 

We  were  sitting  in  this  manner,  he  conversing  with  all  gaiety, 
I  looking  down  with  all  foolishness,  when  that  fop  who  had 
first  asked  me  to  dance,  with  a  most  ridiculous  solemnity,  ap- 
proached, and  after  a  profound  bow  or  two,  said,  "I  humbly  beg 
pardon.  Madam,  —  and  of  you  too,  my  Lord,  —  for  breaking 
in  upon  such  agreeable  conversation  —  which  must,  doubtless, 
be  much  more  delectable  —  than  what  I  have  the  honour  to 
offer  — but— " 

I  interrupted  him  —  I  blush  for  my  folly,  —  with  laughing ; 
yet  I  could  not  help  it,  for,  added  to  the  man's  stately  foppish- 
ness, (and  he  actually  took  snuff  between  every  three  words) 
when  I  looked  round  at  Lord  Orville,  I  saw  such  extreme  surprise 
in  his  face,  —  the  cause  of  which  appeared  so  absurd,  that  I 
could  not  for  my  life  preserve  my  gravity. 

I  had  not  laughed  before  from  the  time  I  had  left  Miss  Mirvan, 
and  I  had  much  better  have  cried  then ;  Lord  Orville  actually 
stared  at  me ;  the  beau,  I  know  not  his  name,  looked  quite 
enraged.  "Refrain  —  Madam,"  (said  he,  with  an  important 
air),  "a  few  moments  refrain!  —  I  have  but  a  sentence  to 
trouble  you  with.  —  May  I  know  to  what  accident  I  must  attrib- 
ute not  having  the  honour  of  your  hand?" 

"Accident,  Sir!"  repeated  I,  much  astonished. 

"Yes,  accident.  Madam  —  for  surely,  —  I  must  take  the 
liberty  to  observe  —  pardon  me.  Madam,  —  it  ought  to  be  no 
common  one  —  that  should  tempt  a  lady  —  so  young  a  one  too, 
—  to  be  guilty  of  ill-manners." 

A  confused  idea  now  for  the  first  time  entered  my  head,  of 
something  I  had  heard  of  the  rules  of  an  assembly ;  but  I  was 
never  at  one  before,  —  I  have  only  danced  at  school,  —  and  so 
giddy  and  heedless  I  was,  that  I  had  not  once  considered  the 
impropriety  of  refusing  one  partner,  and  afterwards  accepting 
another.  I  was  thunderstruck  at  the  recollection :  but  while 
these  thoughts  were  rushing  into  my  head,  Lord  Orville,  with 
some  warmth,  said,  "This  lady,  Sir,  is  incapable  of  meriting  such 
an  accusation  !" 


EVELINA  463 

The  creature  —  for  I  am  very  angry  with  him  —  made  a  low 
bow,  and  with  a  grin  the  most  malicious  I  ever  saw,  "My  Lord," 
said  he,  "far  be  it  from  me  to  accuse  the  lady,  for  having  the  dis- 
cernment to  distinguish  and  prefer  —  the  superior  attractions 
of  your  Lordship." 

Again  he  bowed,  and  walked  off. 

Was  ever  anything  so  provoking  ?  I  was  ready  to  die  with 
shame.  "What  a  coxcomb!"  exclaimed  Lord  Orville;  while 
I,  without  knowing  what  I  did,  rose  hastily,  and  moving  off, 
"I  can't  imagine,"  cried  I,  "where  Mrs.  Mirvan  has  hid 
herself!" 

"Give  me  leave  to  see,"  answered  he.  I  bowed  and  sat  down 
again,  not  daring  to  meet  his  eyes ;  for  what  must  he  think  of 
me,  between  my  blunder,  and  the  supposed  preference  ? 

He  returned  in  a  moment,  and  told  me  that  Mrs.  Mirvan  was 
at  cards,  but  would  be  glad  to  see  me ;  and  I  went  immediately. 
There  was  but  one  chair  vacant,  so,  to  my  great  relief.  Lord  Or- 
ville presently  left  us.  I  then  told  Mrs.  Mirvan  my  disasters, 
and  she  good-naturedly  blamed  herself  for  not  having  better 
instructed  me,  but  said  she  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  I  must 
know  such  common  customs.  However,  the  man  may,  I  think, 
be  satisfied  with  his  pretty  speech,  and  carry  his  resentment 
no  farther. 

LETTER  XXI 
Evelina  in  continuation 

I  HAVE  a  volume  to  write,  of  the  adventures  of  yesterday. 

In  the  afternoon,  —  at  Berry  Hill,  I  should  have  said  the 
evening,  for  it  was  almost  six  o'clock,  —  while  Miss  Mirvan  and 
I  were  dressing  for  the  opera,  and  in  high  spirits,  from  the  expec- 
tation of  great  entertainment  and  pleasure,  we  heard  a  carriage 
stop  at  the  door,  and  concluded  that  Sir  Clement  Willoughby, 
with  his  usual  assiduity,  was  come  to  attend  us  to  the  Haymarket ; 
but,  in  a  few  moments,  what  was  our  surprise,  to  see  our  chamber 
door  flung  open,  and  the  two  Miss  Branghtons  enter  the  room  ! 
They  advanced  to  me  with  great  familiarity,  saying,  "How  do 


464  FANNY  BURNEY 

you  do,  Cousin  ?  —  so  we've  caught  you  at  the  glass  !  —  well, 
I'm  determined  I'll  tell  my  brother  of  that !" 

Miss  Mirvan,  who  had  never  before  seen  them,  and  could 
not,  at  first,  imagine  who  they  were,  looked  so  much  astonished, 
that  I  was  ready  to  laugh  myself,  till  the  eldest  said,  "We're 
come  to  take  you  to  the  opera,  Miss ;  papa  and  my  brother  are 
below,  and  we  are  to  call  for  your  grandmama  as  we  go  along." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  answered  I,  "that  you  should  have  taken 
so  much  trouble,  as  I  am  engaged  already." 

"Engaged  !  Lord, Miss, nevermind  that,"  cried  the  youngest ; 
"this  young  lady  will  make  your  excuses,  I  dare  say;  it's  only 
doing  as  one  would  be  done  by,  you  know." 

"Indeed,  Ma'am,"  said  Miss  Mirvan,  "I  shall  myself  be  very 
sorry  to  be  deprived  of  Miss  Anville's  company  this  evening." 

"Well,  Miss,  that  is  not  so  very  good-natured  in  you,"  said 
Miss  Branghton,  "considering  we  only  come  to  give  our  cousin 
pleasure  ;  it's  no  good  to  us ;  it's  all  upon  her  account ;  for  we 
came,  I  don't  know  how  much  round  about  to  take  her  up." 

"I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you,"  said  I,  "and  very  sorry  you 
have  lost  so  much  time ;  but  I  cannot  possibly  help  it,  for  I 
engaged  myself  without  knowing  you  would  call." 

"Lord,  what  signifies  that?"  said  Miss  Polly,  "you're  no  old 
maid,  and  so  you  need  n't  be  so  very  formal :  besides,  I  dare 
say  those  you  are  engaged  to,  a'n't  half  so  near  related  to  you 
as  we  are." 

"I  must  beg  you  not  to  press  me  any  further,  for  I  assure  you 
it  is  not  in  my  power  to  attend  you." 

"Why,  we  came  all  out  of  the  city  on  purpose:  besides,  your 
grandmama  expects  you ;  —  and  pray,  what  are  we  to  say  to 
her?" 

"Tell  her,  if  you  please,  that  I  am  much  concerned,  —  but 
that  I  am  pre-engaged." 

"And  who  to  ?"  demanded  the  abrupt  Miss  Branghton. 

"To  Mrs.  Mirvan,  —  and  a  large  party." 

"And,  pray,  what  are  you  all  going  to  do,  that  it  would  be  such 
a  mighty  matter  for  you  to  come  along  with  us  ?  " 

"We  are  all  going  to  —  to  the  opera." 

"O  dear,  if  that  be  all,  why  can't  we  go  all  together  ?" 


EVELINA  465 

I  was  extremely  disconcerted  at  this  forward  and  ignorant 
behaviour,  and  yet  their  rudeness  very  much  lessened  my  concern 
at  refusing  them.  Indeed,  their  dress  was  such  as  would  have 
rendered  their  scheme  of  accompanying  our  party  impracticable, 
even  if  I  had  desired  it ;  and  this,  as  they  did  not  themselves  find 
out,  I  was  obHged,  in  terms  the  least  mortifying  I  could  think  of, 
to  tell  them. 

They  were  very  much  chagrined,  and  asked  where  I  should  sit. 

"In  the  pit,"  answered  I. 

"In  the  pit !"  repeated  Miss  Branghton,  "well,  really,  I  must 
own  I  should  never  have  supposed  that  my  gown  was  not  good 
enough  for  the  pit :  but  come,  Polly,  let's  go ;  if  Miss  does  not 
think  us  fine  enough  for  her,  why  to  be  sure  she  may  chuse." 

Surprised  at  this  ignorance,  I  would  have  explained  to  them 
that  the  pit  at  the  opera  required  the  same  dress  as  the  boxes ; 
but  they  were  so  much  affronted,  they  would  not  hear  me,  and, 
in  great  displeasure,  left  the  room,  saying  they  would  not  have 
troubled  me,  only  they  thought  I  should  not  be  so  proud  with 
my  own  relations,  and  that  they  had  at  least  as  good  a  right  to 
my  company  as  strangers. 

I  endeavoured  to  apologize,  and  would  have  sent  a  long  message 
to  Madame  Duval ;  but  they  hastened  away  without  listening 
to  me ;  and  I  could  not  follow  them  down  stairs,  because  I  was 
not  dressed.  The  last  words  I  heard  them  say,  were,  "Well, 
her  grandmama  will  be  in  a  line  passion,  that's  one  good  thing." 

Though  I  was  extremely  mad  at  this  visit,  yet  I  so  heartily 
rejoiced  at  their  going,  that  I  would  not  suffer  myself  to  think 
gravely  about  it. 

Soon  after  Sir  Clement  actually  came,  and  we  all  went  down 
stairs.  Mrs.  Mirvan  ordered  tea  ;  and  we  were  engaged  in  a  very 
lively  conversation,  when  the  servant  announced  Madame  Duval, 
who  instantly  followed  him  into  the  room. 

Her  face  was  the  colour  of  scarlet,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with 
fury.  She  came  up  to  me  with  a  hasty  step,  saying,  "So,  Miss, 
you  refuse  to  come  to  me,  do  you  ?  And  pray  who  are  you,  to 
dare  to  disobey  me?" 

I  was  quite  frightened  ;  —  I  made  no  answer  ;  —  I  even  at- 
tempted to  rise,  and  could  not,  but  sat  still,  mute  and  motionless. 


466  FANNY    BURNEY 

Every  body,  but  Miss  Mirvan,  seemed  in  the  utmost  astonish- 
ment ;  and  the  Captain,  rising  and  approaching  Madame  Duval, 
with  a  voice  of  authority,  said,  "Why  how  now,  Mrs.  Turkey 
Cock,  what's  put  you  into  this  here  fluster  ?  " 

"It's  nothing  to  you,"  answered  she,  "so  you  may  as  well 
hold  your  tongue,  for  I  sha'n't  be  called  to  no  account  by  you,  I 
assure  you." 

"There  you're  out.  Madam  Fury,"  returned  he,  "for  you  must 
know  I  never  suffer  anybody  to  be  in  a  passion  in  my  house,  but 
myself." 

"But  you  shall"  cried  she  in  a  great  rage,  "for  I'll  be  in  as 
great  a  passion  as  ever  I  please,  without  asking  your  leave, 
so  don't  give  yourself  no  more  airs  about  it.  And  as  for  you, 
Miss,"  again  advancing  to  me,  "I  order  you  to  follow  me  this 
moment,  or  else  I'll  make  you  repent  it  all  your  hfe."  And, 
with  these  words,  she  flung  out  of  the  room. 

I  was  in  such  extreme  terror,  at  being  addressed  and 
threatened  in  a  manner  to  which  I  am  so  wholly  unused,  that 
I  almost  thought  I  should  have  fainted. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  my  love,"  cried  Mrs.  Mirvan,  "but  stay 
where  you  are,  and  I  will  follow  Madame  Duval,  and  try  to  bring 
her  to  reason." 

Miss  Mirvan  took  my  hand,  and  most  kindly  endeavoured  to 
raise  my  spirits :  Sir  Clement,  too,  approached  me,  with  an  air 
so  interested  in  my  distress,  that  I  could  not  but  feel  myself 
obliged  to  him;  and,  taking  my  other  hand,  said,  "For 
Heaven's  sake,  my  dear  Madam,  compose  yourself;  surely 
the  violence  of  such  a  wretch  ought  merely  to  move  your  con- 
tempt :  she  can  have  no  right,  I  imagine,  to  lay  her  commands 
upon  you,  and  I  only  wish  that  you  would  allow  me  to  speak 
to  her." 

"O  no  !  not  for  the  world  !  —  indeed,  I  believe,  —  I  am  afraid 
—  I  had  better  follow  her." 

"Follow  her  !  Good  God,  my  dear  Miss  Anville,  would  you 
trust  yourself  with  a  mad  woman  ?  for  what  else  can  you  call  a 
creature  whose  passions  are  so  insolent  ?  No,  no  ;  send  her  word 
at  once  to  leave  the  house,  and  tell  her  you  desire  that  she  will 
never  see  you  again." 


EVELINA  467 

"O  Sir!  you  don't  know  who  you  talk  of!  —  it  would  ill 
become  me  to  send  Madame  Duval  such  a  message." 

"But  why,''  cried  he  (looking  very  inquisitive,)  ^^why  should 
you  scruple  to  treat  her  as  she  deserves  ?  " 

I  then  found  that  his  aim  was  to  discover  the  nature  of  her 
connection  with  me ;  but  I  felt  so  much  ashamed  of  my  near 
relationship  to  her,  that  I  could  not  persuade  myself  to  answer 
him,  and  only  entreated  that  he  would  leave  her  to  Mrs.  Mirvan, 
who  just  then  entered  the  room. 

Before  she  could  speak  to  me,  the  Captain  called  out,  "Well, 
Goody,  what  have  you  done  with  Madame  French  ?  is  she  cooled 
a  little  ?  cause  if  she  be  n't,  I've  just  thought  of  a  most  excellent 
device  so  bring  her  to." 

"My  dear  Evelina,"  said  Mrs.  Mirvan,  "I  have  been  vainly 
endeavouring  to  appease  her ;  I  pleaded  your  engagement,  and 
promised  your  future  attendance :  but  I  am  sorry  to  say,  my 
love,  that  I  fear  her  rage  will  end  in  a  total  breach  (which  I 
think  you  had  better  avoid)  if  she  is  any  further  opposed." 

"Then  I  will  go  to  her,  Madam,"  cried  I,  "and,  indeed,  it  is 
now  no  matter,  for  I  should  not  be  able  to  recover  my  spirits 
sufficiently  to  enjoy  much  pleasure  any  where  this  evening." 

Sir  Clement  began  a  very  warm  expostulation  and  entreaty, 
that  I  would  not  go ;  but  I  begged  him  to  desist,  and  told  him, 
very  honestly,  that,  if  my  compliance  were  not  indispensably 
necessary,  I  should  require  no  persuasion  to  stay.  He  then  took 
my  hand,  to  lead  me  down  stairs ;  but  the  Captain  desired  him 
to  be  quiet,  saying  he  would  'squire  me  himself,  "because,"  he 
added,  (exultingly  rubbing  his  hands)  "I  have  a  wipe  ready 
for  the  old  lady,  which  may  serve  her  to  chew  as  she  goes 
along." 

We  found  her  in  the  parlour.  "O,  you're  come  at  last.  Miss, 
are  you  ?  —  fine  airs  you  give  yourself,  indeed  !  ma  foi,  if  you 
had  n't  come,  you  might  have  stayed,  I  assure  you,  and  have  been 
a  beggar  for  your  pains." 

"Heyday,  Madam,"  cried  the  Captain  (prancing  forward, 
with  a  look  of  great  glee),  "what,  a'n't  you  got  out  of  that  there 
passion  yet  ?  why  then,  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do  to  cool  yourself, 
call  upon  your  old  friend,  Monseer  Slippery,  who  was  with  you  at 


468  FANNY   BURNEY 

Ranelagh,  and  give  my  service  to  him,  and  tell  him,  if  he  sets 
any  store  by  your  health,  that  I  desire  he'll  give  you  such  another 
souse  as  he  did  before  :  he'll  know  what  I  mean,  and  I'll  warrant 
you  he'll  do  't  for  my  sake." 

"Let  him,  if  he  dares  !"  cried  Madame  Duval ;  "but  I  sha'n't 
stay  to  answer  you  no  more  ;  you  are  a  vulgar  fellow,  —  and  so, 
child,  let  us  leave  him  to  himself." 

"Hark  ye,  Madam,"  cried  the  Captain,  "you'd  best  not  call 
names,  because,  d'ye  see,  if  you  do,  I  shall  make  bold  to  show 
you  the  door." 

She  changed  colour,  and,  saying  '' Pardi,  I  can  shew  it  myself," 
hurried  out  of  the  room,  and  I  followed  her  into  a  hackney-coach. 
But  before  we  drove  off,  the  Captain,  looking  out  of  the  parlour 
window,  called  out,  "D'ye  hear,  Madam,  —  don't  forget  my 
message  to  Monseer.'^ 

You  will  believe  our  ride  was  not  the  most  agreeable  in  the 
world ;  indeed,  it  would  be  difi&cult  to  say  which  was  least  pleased, 
Madame  Duval  or  me,  though  the  reasons  of  our  discontent 
were  so  different :  however,  Madame  Duval  soon  got  the  start  of 
me ;  for  we  had  hardly  turned  out  of  Queen- Ann-Street,  when  a 
man,  running  full  speed,  stopt  the  coach.  He  came  up  to  the 
window,  and  I  saw  he  was  the  Captain's  servant.  He  had  a 
broad  grin  on  his  face,  and  panted  for  breath.  Madame  Duval 
demanded  his  business;  "Madam,"  answered  he,  "my  master 
desires  his  compliments  to  you,  and  —  and  —  and  he  says  he 
wishes  it  well  over  with  you.     He  !  he  !  he  ! "  — 

Madame  Duval  instantly  darted  forward,  and  gave  him  a 
violent  blow  on  the  face;  "Take  that  back  for  your  answer, 
sirrah,"  cried  she,  "and  learn  to  grin  at  your  betters  another 
time.     Coachman,  drive  on!" 

The  servant  was  in  a  violent  passion,  and  swore  terribly ; 
but  we  were  soon  out  of  hearing. 

The  rage  of  Madame  Duval  was  greater  than  ever ;  and  she 
inveighed  against  the  Captain  with  such  fury,  that  I  was  even 
apprehensive  she  would  have  returned  to  his  house,  purposely  to 
reproach  him,  which  she  repeatedly  threatened  to  do  ;  nor  would 
she,  I  believe  have  hesitated  a  moment,  but  that,  notwithstand- 
ing her  violence,  he  has  really  made  her  afraid  of  him. 


EVELINA  469 

When  we  came  to  her  lodgings,  we  found  all  the  Branghtons 
in  the  passage,  impatiently  waiting  for  us  with  the  door  open. 

"Only  see,  here's  Miss  !"  cried  the  brother. 

"Well,  I  declare  I  thought  as  much!"  said  the  younger 
sister. 

"Why,  Miss,"  said  Mr.  Branghton,  "I  think  you  might  as 
well  have  come  with  your  cousins  at  once ;  it's  throwing  money 
in  the  dirt,  to  pay  two  coaches  for  one  fare." 

"Lord,  father,"  cried  the  son,  "make  no  words  about  that; 
for  I'll  pay  for  the  coach  that  Miss  had." 

"O,  I  know  very  well,"  answered  Mr.  Branghton,  "  that  you're 
always  more  ready  to  spend  than  to  earn." 

I  then  interfered,  and  begged  that  I  might  myself  be  allowed 
to  pay  the  fare,  as  the  expence  was  incurred  upon  my  account ; 
they  all  said  no,  and  proposed  that  the  same  coach  should  carry 
us  to  the  opera. 

While  this  passed,  the  Miss  Branghtons  were  examining  my 
dress,  which,  indeed,  was  very  improper  for  my  company ; 
and,  as  I  was  extremely  unwilling  to  be  so  conspicuous  amongst 
them,  I  requested  Madame  Duval  to  borrow  a  hat  or  bonnet  for 
me  of  the  people  of  the  house.  But  she  never  wears  either  her- 
self, and  thinks  them  very  English  and  barbarous ;  therefore  she 
insisted  that  I  should  go  full  dressed,  as  I  had  prepared  myself 
for  the  pit,  though  I  made  many  objections. 

We  were  then  all  crowded  into  the  same  carriage ;  but  when  we 
arrived  at  the  opera-house,  I  contrived  to  pay  the  coachman. 
They  made  a  great  many  speeches  ;  but  Mr.  Brangh ton's  reflection 
had  determined  me  not  to  be  indebted  to  him. 

If  I  had  not  been  too  much  chagrined  to  laugh,  I  should  have 
been  extremely  diverted  at  their  ignorance  of  whatever  belongs 
to  an  opera.  In  the  first  place,  they  could  not  tell  at  what  door 
we  ought  to  enter,  and  we  wandered  about  for  some  time,  without 
knowing  which  way  to  turn  :  they  did  not  chuse  to  apply  to  me, 
though  I  was  the  only  person  of  the  party  who  had  ever  before 
been  at  an  opera ;  because  they  were  unwilling  to  suppose  that 
their  country  cousin,  as  they  were  pleased  to  call  me,  should  be 
better  acquainted  with  any  London  public  place  than  themselves. 
I  was  very  indifferent  and  careless  upon  this  subject,  but  not  a 


470 


FANNY   BURNEY 


little  uneasy  at  finding  that  my  dress,  so  different  from  that  of 
the  company  to  which  I  belonged,  attracted  general  notice  and 
observation. 

In  a  short  time,  however,  we  arrived  at  one  of  the  doorkeepers' 
bars.  Mr.  Branghton  demanded  for  what  part  of  the  house  they 
took  money  ?  They  answered  the  pit,  and  regarded  us  all  with 
great  earnestness.  The  son  then  advancing,  said,  "Sir,  if  you 
please,  I  beg  that  I  may  treat  Miss." 

"We'll  settle  that  another  time,"  answered  Mr.  Branghton, 
and  put  down  a  guinea. 

Two  tickets  of  admission  were  given  to  him. 

Mr.  Branghton,  in  his  turn,  now  stared  at  the  door-keeper, 
and  demanded  what  he  meant  by  giving  him  only  two  tickets 
for  a  guinea  ? 

"Only  two.  Sir !"  said  the  man ;  "why  don't  you  know  that 
the  tickets  are  half-a-guinea  each?" 

" Half-a-guinea  each!"  repeated  Mr.  Branghton,  "why  I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  my  life  !  And  pray.  Sir,  how  many 
will  they  admit  ?" 

"Just  as  usual,  Sir,  one  person  each." 

"But  one  person  for  half-a-guinea  !  —  why  I  only  want  to  sit 
in  the  pit,  friend." 

"Had  not  the  Ladies  better  sit  in  the  gallery.  Sir,  for  they'll 
hardly  chuse  to  go  into  the  pit  with  their  hats  on  ?" 

"O,  as  to  that,"  cried  Miss  Branghton,  "if  our  hats  are  too 
high,  we'll  take  them  off  when  we  get  in.  I  sha'n't  mind  it, 
for  I  did  my  hair  on  purpose." 

Another  party  then  approaching,  the  door-keeper  could  no 
longer  attend  to  Mr.  Branghton,  who,  taking  up  the  guinea,  told 
him  it  should  be  long  enough  before  he'd  see  it  again,  and  walked 
away. 

The  young  ladies,  in  some  confusion,  expressed  their  surprise, 
that  their  papa  should  not  know  the  Opera  prices,  which,  for 
their  parts,  they  had  read  in  the  papers  a  thousand  times. 

"The  price  of  stocks,"  said  he,  "is  enough  for  me  to  see  after; 
and  I  took  it  for  granted  it  was  the  same  thing  here  as  at  the 
play-house." 

"I  knew  well  enough  what  the  price  was,"  said  the  son,  "but 


EVELINA 


471 


I  would  not  speak,  because  I  thought  perhaps  they'd  take  less, 
as  we're  such  a  large  party." 

The  sisters  both  laughed  very  contemptuously  at  this  idea, 
and  asked  him  if  he  ever  heard  of  people  s  abating  any  thing  at  a 
public  place? 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  have  or  no,"  answered  he ;  "but  I  am 
sure  if  they  would,  you'd  like  it  so  much  the  worse." 

"Very  true,  Tom,"  cried  Mr.  Branghton ;  "tell  a  woman  that 
any  thing  is  reasonable,  and  she'll  be  sure  to  hate  it." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Polly,  "I  hope  that  aunt  and  Miss  will  be 
of  our  side,  for  Papa  always  takes  part  with  Tom." 

"Come,  come,"  cried  Madame  Duval,  "if  you  stand  talking 
here,  we  sha'n't  get  no  place  at  all." 

Mr.  Branghton  then  enquired  the  way  to  the  gallery,  and, 
when  we  came  to  the  door-keeper,  demanded  what  was  to  pay. 

"The  usual  price,  Sir,"  said  the  man. 

"Then  give  me  change,"  cried  Mr.  Branghton,  again  putting 
down  his  guinea. 

"For  how  many.  Sir?" 

"Why  —  let's  see,  —  for  six." 

"For  six,  Sir?  why,  you've  given  me  but  a  guinea." 

"5w/  a  guinea  !  why,  how  much  would  you  have  ?  I  suppose 
it  i'n't  half-a-guinea  apiece  here  too?" 

"No,  Sir,  only  five  shillings." 

Mr.  Branghton  again  took  up  his  unfortunate  guinea, 
and  protested  he  would  submit  to  no  such  imposition.  I  then 
proposed  that  we  should  return  home,  but  Madame  Duval 
would  not  consent,  and  we  were  conducted,  by  a  woman  who  sells 
books  of  the  Opera,  to  another  gallery-door,  where,  after  some 
disputing,  Mr.  Branghton  at  last  paid,  and  we  all  went  up  stairs. 

Madame  Duval  complained  very  much  of  the  trouble  of  going 
so  high,  but  Mr  Branghton  desired  her  not  to  hold  the  place  too 
cheap,  "for,  whatever  you  may  think,"  cried  he,  "I  assure  you 
I  paid  pit  price ;  so  don't  suppose  I  come  here  to  save  my  money." 

"Well,  to  be  sure,"  said  Miss  Branghton,  "there's  no  judging 
of  a  place  by  the  outside,  else,  I  must  needs  say,  there's  nothing 
very  extraordinary  in  the  stair-case." 

But,  when  we  entered  the  gallery,  their  amazement  and  dis- 


472  FANNY   BURNEY 

appointment  became  general.  For  a  few  instants,  they  looked 
at  one  another  without  speaking,  and  then  they  all  broke  silence 
at  once. 

"Lord,  Papa,"  exclaimed  Miss  Polly,  "why  you  have  brought 
us  to  the  one-shilling  gallery  !" 

"I'll  be  glad  to  give  you  two  shillings,  though,"  answered  he, 
"to  pay.  I  was  never  so  fooled  out  of  my  money  before,  since 
the  hour  of  my  birth.  Either  the  door-keeper's  a  knave,  or  this 
is  the  greatest  imposition  that  ever  was  put  upon  the  public." 

"Mafoi,"  cried  Madame  Duval,  "I  never  sat  in  such  a  mean 
place  in  all  my  life ;  —  why  it's  as  high  !  —  we  sha'n't  see  noth- 
ing." 

"I  thought  at  the  time,"  said  Mr.  Branghton,  "that  three 
shillings  was  an  exorbitant  price  for  a  place  in  the  gallery, 
but  as  we'd  been  asked  so  much  more  at  the  other  doors,  why  I 
paid  it  without  many  words ;  but  then,  to  be  sure,  thinks  I, 
it  can  never  be  like  any  other  gallery,  —  we  shall  see  some 
crinkum  crankum  or  other  for  our  money ;  —  but  I  find  it's  as 
arrant  a  take-in  as  ever  I  met  with." 

"Why  it's  as  like  the  twelve-penny  gallery  at  Drury-Lane," 
cried  the  son,  "as  two  peas  are  to  one  another.  I  never  knew 
father  so  bit  before." 

"Lord,"  said  Miss  Branghton,  "I  thought  it  would  have  been 
quite  a  fine  place,  —  all  over  I  don't  know  what,  —  and  done 
quite  in  taste." 

In  this  manner  they  continued  to  express  their  dissatisfaction 
till  the  curtain  drew  up ;  after  which,  their  observations  were 
very  curious.  They  made  no  allowance  for  the  customs,  or  even 
for  the  language  of  another  country,  but  formed  all  their  remarks 
upon  comparisons  with  the  English  theatre. 

Notwithstanding  my  vexation  at  having  been  forced  into  a 
party  so  very  disagreeable,  and  that,  too,  from  one  so  much  —  so 
very  much  the  contrary  —  yet,  would  they  have  suffered  me  to 
listen,  I  should  have  forgotten  every  thing  unpleasant,  and  felt 
nothing  but  delight,  in  hearing  the  sweet  voice  of  Signor  MilHco, 
the  first  singer  ;  but  they  tormented  me  with  continual  talking. 

"What  a  jabbering  they  make!"  cried  Mr.  Branghton; 
"there's  no  knowing  a  word  they  say.     Pray  what's  the  reason 


EVELINA 


473 


they  can't  as  well  sing  in  English  ?  —  but  I  suppose  the  fine 
folks  would  not  like  it,  if  they  could  understand  it." 

"How  unnatural  their  action  is!"  said  the  son;  "why  now 
who  ever  saw  an  Englishman  put  himself  in  such  out-of-the-way 
postures  ?" 

"For  my  part,"  said  Miss  Polly,  "I  think  it's  very  pretty, 
only  I  don't  know  what  it  means." 

"Lord,  what  does  that  signify?"  cried  her  sister;  "may  n't 
one  like  a  thing  without  being  so  very  particular  ?  —  You  may 
see  that  Miss  likes  it,  and  I  don't  suppose  she  knows  more  of  the 
matter  than  we  do." 

A  gentleman,  soon  after,  was  so  obliging  as  to  make  room  in 
the  front  row  for  Miss  Branghton  and  me.  We  had  no  sooner 
seated  ourselves,  than  Miss  Branghton  exclaimed,  "Good 
gracious  !  only  see  !  —  why,  Polly,  all  the  people  in  the  pit  are 
without  hats,  dressed  like  anything!" 

"Lord,  so  they  are,"  cried  Miss  Polly,  "well,  I  never  saw  the 
like  !  —  it's  worth  coming  to  the  Opera  if  one  saw  nothing  else." 

I  was  then  able  to  distinguish  the  happy  party  I  had  left ; 
and  I  saw  that  Lord  Orville  had  seated  himself  next  to  Mrs. 
Mirvan.  Sir  Clement  had  his  eyes  perpetually  cast  towards  the 
five-shilling  gallery,  where  I  suppose  he  concluded  that  we  were 
seated ;  however,  before  the  Opera  was  over,  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  he  had  discovered  me,  high  and  distant  as  I  was 
from  him.     Probably  he  distinguished  me  by  my  head-dress. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  act,  as  the  green  curtain  dropped,  to 
prepare  for  the  dance,  they  imagined  that  the  Opera  was  done, 
and  Mr.  Branghton  expressed  great  indignation  that  he  had 
been  tricked  out  of  his  money  with  so  little  trouble.  "Now  if 
any  EngHshman  was  to  do  such  an  impudent  thing  as  this,"  said 
he,  "why  he'd  be  pelted;  —  but  here,  one  of  these  outlandish 
gentry  may  do  just  what  he  pleases,  and  come  on,  and  squeak  out 
a  song  or  two,  and  then  pocket  your  money  without  further 
ceremony." 

However,  so  determined  he  was  to  be  dissatisfied,  that,  before 
the  conclusion  of  the  third  act,  he  found  still  more  fault  with  the 
Opera  for  being  too  long,  and  wondered  whether  they  thought 
their  singing  good  enough  to  serve  us  for  supper. 


474  FANNY  BURNEY 

During  the  symphony  of  a  song  of  Signer  MilHco's,  in  the 
second  act,  young  Mr.  Branghton  said,  "It's  my  beUef  that 
fellow's  going  to  sing  another  song  !  —  why  there's  nothing  but 
singing  !  —  I  wonder  when  they'll  speak." 

This  song,  which  was  slow  and  pathetic,  caught  all  my  atten- 
tion, and  I  lean'd  my  head  forward  to  avoid  hearing  their  obser- 
vations, that  I  might  listen  without  interruption ;  but,  upon 
turning  round,  when  the  song  was  over,  I  found  that  I  was  the 
object  of  general  diversion  to  the  whole  party ;  for  the  Miss 
Branghtons  were  tittering,  and  the  two  gentlemen  making  signs 
and  faces  at  me,  implying  their  contempt  of  my  affectation. 

This  discovery  determined  me  to  appear  as  inattentive  as 
themselves ;  but  I  was  very  much  provoked  at  being  thus  pre- 
vented enjoying  the  only  pleasure,  which,  in  such  a  party,  was 
within  my  power. 

"So,  Miss,"  said  Mr.  Branghton,  "you're  quite  in  the  fashion, 
I  see ;  —  so  you  like  Operas  ?  well,  I'm  not  so  polite  ;  I  can't 
like  nonsense,  let  it  be  never  so  much  the  taste." 

"But  pray.  Miss,"  said  the  son,  "what  makes  that  fellow  look 
so  doleful  while  he  is  singing  ?  " 

"Probably  because  the  character  he  performs  is  in  distress." 

"Why  then  I  think  he  might  as  well  let  alone  singing  till  he's 
in  better  cue  :  it's  out  of  all  nature  for  a  man  to  be  piping  when 
he's  in  distress.  For  my  part,  I  never  sing  but  when  I'm 
merry ;  yet  I  love  a  song  as  well  as  most  people." 

When  the  curtain  dropt,  they  all  rejoiced. 

"How  do  you  like  it  ?  —  and  how  do  you  like  it  ? "  passed  from 
one  to  another  with  looks  of  the  utmost  contempt.  "As  for 
me,"  said  Mr  Branghton,  "they've  caught  me  once,  but  if  ever 
they  do  again,  I'll  give  'em  leave  to  sing  me  to  Bedlam  for  my 
pains  :  for  such  a  heap  of  stuff  never  did  I  hear ;  there  is  n't  one 
ounce  of  sense  in  the  whole  Opera,  nothing  but  one  continued 
squeaking  and  squalling  from  beginning  to  end." 

"  If  I  had  been  in  the  pit,"  said  Madame  Duval,  "  I  should  have 
liked  it  vastly,  for  music  is  my  passion  ;  but  sitting  in  such  a  place 
as  this,  is  quite  unbearable." 

Miss  Branghton,  looking  at  me,  declared,  that  she  was  not 
genteel  enough  to  admire  it. 


EVELINA  475 

Miss  Polly  confessed,  that  "if  they  would  but  sing  English,  she 
would  like  it  very  well." 

The  brother  wished  he  could  raise  a  riot  in  the  house,  because 
then  he  might  get  his  money  again. 

And,  finally,  they  all  agreed,  that  it  was  monstrous  dear. 

During  the  last  dance,  I  perceived,  standing  near  the  gallery- 
door,  Sir  Clement  Willoughby.  I  was  extremely  vexed,  and 
would  have  given  the  world  to  have  avoided  being  seen  by  him : 
my  chief  objection  was,  from  the  apprehension  that  he  wou'd 
hear  Miss  Branghton  call  me  cousin.  —  I  fear  you  will  think 
this  London  journey  has  made  me  grow  very  proud,  but  indeed 
this  family  is  so  low-bred  and  vulgar,  that  I  should  be  equally 
ashamed  of  such  a  connection  in  the  country,  or  any  where. 
And  really  I  had  been  already  so  much  chagrined  that  Sir  Clement 
had  been  a  witness  of  Madame  Duval's  power  over  me,  that  I 
could  not  bear  to  be  exposed  to  any  further  mortification. 

As  the  seats  cleared,  by  parties  going  away.  Sir  Clement 
approached  nearer  to  us ;  the  Miss  Branghtons  observed  with 
surprise,  what  a  fine  gentleman  was  come  into  the  gallery,  and 
they  gave  me  great  reason  to  expect,  that  they  would  endeavour 
to  attract  his  notice,  by  familiarity  with  me,  whenever  he  should 
join  us ;  and  so,  I  formed  a  sort  of  plan,  to  prevent  any  conver- 
sation. I'm  afraid  you  will  think  it  wrong ;  and  so  I  do  myself 
now,  —  but  at  the  time,  I  only  considered  how  I  might  avoid 
immediate  humiliation. 

As  soon  as  he  was  within  two  seats  of  us,  he  spoke  to  me,  "I 
am  very  happy.  Miss  Anville,  to  have  found  you,  for  the  Ladies 
below  have  each  an  humble  attendant,  and  therefore  I  am  come  to 
offer  my  services  here." 

"Why  then,"  cried  I,  (not  without  hesitating)  "if  you  please, 
—  I  will  join  them." 

"Will  you  allow  me  the  honour  of  conducting  you?"  cried  he 
eagerly ;  and,  instantly  taking  my  hand,  he  would  have  marched 
away  with  me:  but  I  turned  to  Madame  Duval,  and  said,  "As 
our  party  is  so  large,  Madam,  if  you  will  give  me  leave,  I  will  go 
down  to  Mrs.  Mirvan,  that  I  may  not  crowd  you  in  the- coach." 

And  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  I  suffered  Sir  Clement 
to  hand  me  out  of  the  gallery. 


476  FANNY   BURNEY 

Madame  Duval,  I  doubt  not,  will  be  very  angry,  and  so  I  am 
with  myself,  now,  and  therefore  I  cannot  be  surprised  :  but  Mr. 
Branghton,  I  am  sure,  will  easily  comfort  himself,  in  having 
escaped  the  additional  coach-expence  of  carrying  me  to  Queen- 
Ann-Street  :  as  to  his  daughters,  they  had  no  time  to  speak,  but 
I  saw  they  were  in  utter  amazement. 

My  intention  was  to  join  Mrs.  Mirvan,  and  accompany  her 
home.  Sir  Clement  was  in  high  spirits  and  good  humour  ;  and 
all  the  way  we  went,  I  was  fool  enough  to  rejoice  in  secret  at  the 
success  of  my  plan  ;  nor  was  it  until  I  got  down  stairs,  and  amidst 
the  servants,  that  any  difficulty  occurred  to  me  of  meeting  with 
my  friends. 

I  then  asked  Sir  Clement  how  I  should  contrive  to  acquaint 
Mrs.  Mirvan  that  I  had  left  Madame  Duval  ? 

"I  fear  it  will  be  almost  impossible  to  find  her,"  answered  he; 
"but  you  can  have  no  objection  to  permitting  me  to  see  you  safe 
home." 

He  then  desired  his  servant,  who  was  waiting,  to  order  his 
chariot  to  draw  up. 

This  quite  startled  me ;  I  turned  to  him  hastily,  and  said  that 
I  could  not  think  of  going  away  without  Mrs.  Mirvan. 

"But  how  can  we  meet  with  her?"  cried  he;  "you  will  not 
chuse  to  go  into  the  pit  yourself ;  I  cannot  send  a  servant  there ; 
and  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  go  and  leave  you  alone." 

The  truth  of  this  was  indisputable,  and  totally  silenced  me. 
Yet,  as  soon  as  I  could  recollect  myself,  I  determined  not  to  go  in 
his  chariot,  and  told  him  I  believed  I  had  best  return  to  my  party 
up  stairs. 

He  would  not  hear  of  this ;  and  earnestly  entreated  me  not  to 
withdraw  the  trust  I  had  reposed  in  him. 

While  he  was  speaking,  I  saw  Lord  Orville,  with  several  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  coming  from  the  pit  passage :  unfortunately  he 
saw  me  too,  and,  leaving  his  company,  advanced  instantly  tow- 
ards me,  and,  with  an  air  and  voice  of  surprise,  said,  "  Good  God, 
do  I  see  Miss  Anville  !" 

I  now  most  severely  felt  the  folly  of  my  plan,  and  the  awkward- 
ness of  my  situation  ;  however,  I  hastened  to  tell  him,  though  in 
a  hesitating  manner,  that  I  was  waiting  for  Mrs.  Mirvan :   but 


EVELINA  477 

what  was  my  disappointment,  when  he  acquainted  me  that  she 
was  already  gone  home  ! 

I  was  inexpressibly  distressed ;  to  suffer  Lord  Orville  to 
think  me  satisfied  with  the  single  protection  of  Sir  Clement 
Willoughby,  I  could  not  bear ;  yet  I  was  more  than  ever  averse 
to  returning  to  a  party  which  I  dreaded  his  seeing  :  I  stood  some 
moments  in  suspense,  and  could  not  help  exclaiming,  "Good 
Heaven,  what  can  I  do  !" 

"Why,  my  dear  Madam,"  cried  Sir  Clement,  "should  you  be 
thus  uneasy?  —  you  will  reach  Queen- Ann-Street  almost  as  soon 
as  Mrs.  Mirvan,  and  I  am  sure  you  cannot  doubt  being  as  safe." 

I  made  no  answer,  and  Lord  Orville  then  said,  "My  coach 
is  here ;  and  my  servants  are  ready  to  take  any  commands  Miss 
Anville  will  honour  me  with  for  them.  I  shall  myself  go  home 
in  a  chair,  and  therefore  — " 

How  grateful  did  I  feel  for  9.  proposal  so  considerate,  and  made 
with  so  much  dehcacy  !  I  should  gladly  have  accepted  it,  had 
I  been  permitted,  but  Sir  Clement  would  not  let  him  even  finish 
his  speech ;  he  interrupted  him  with  evident  displeasure,  and 
said,  "  My  Lord,  my  own  chariot  is  now  at  the  door." 

And  just  then  the  servant  came,  and  told  him  that  the  carriage 
was  ready.  He  begged  to  have  the  honour  of  conducting  me  to 
it,  and  would  have  taken  my  hand,  but  I  drew  it  back,  saying, 
"I  can't  —  I  can't  indeed  !  pray  go  by  yourself  —  and  as  to  me, 
let  me  have  a  chair." 

"Impossible!"  (cried  he  with  vehemence)  "I  cannot  think 
of  trusting  you  with  strange  chairmen,  —  I  cannot  answer  it  to 
Mrs.  Mirvan,  —  come,  dear  Madam,  we  shall  be  home  in  five 
minutes." 

Again  I  stood  suspended.  With  what  joy  would  I  then  have 
compromised  with  my  pride,  to  have  been  once  more  with 
Madame  Duval  and  the  Branghtons,  provided  I  had  not  met  with 
Lord  Orville  !  However,  I  flatter  myself  that  he  not  only  saw, 
but  pitied  my  embarrassment,  for  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
unusually  softened,  "To  offer  my  services  in  the  presence  of  Sir 
Clement  Willoughby  would  be  superfluous  ;  but  I  hope  I  need  not 
assure  Miss  Anville,  how  happy  it  would  make  me  to  be  of  the 
least  use  to  her." 


478  FANNY   BURNEY 

I  courtsied  my  thanks.  Sir  Clement,  with  great  earnestness, 
pressed  me  to  go ;  and  while  I  was  thus  uneasily  deliberating 
what  to  do,  the  dance,  I  suppose,  finished,  for  the  people  crowded 
down  stairs.  Had  Lord  Orville  then  repeated  his  offer,  I  would 
have  accepted  it,  notwithstanding  Sir  Clement's  repugnance  ;  but 
I  fancy  he  thought  it  would  be  impertinent.  In  a  very  few 
minutes  I  heard  Madame  Duval's  voice,  as  she  descended  from 
the  gallery ;  ''Well,"  cried  I,  hastily,  "if  I  must  go  —  "  I  stopt ; 
but  Sir  Clement  handed  me  into  his  chariot,  called  out  Queen- 
Ann-Street,  and  then  jumped  in  himself.  Lord  Orville,  with  a 
bow  and  a  half  smile,  wished  me  good  night. 

My  concern  was  so  great,  at  being  seen  and  left  by  Lord  Orville 
in  so  strange  a  situation,  that  I  should  have  been  best  pleased  to 
have  remained  wholly  silent  during  our  ride  home :  but  Sir 
Clement  took  care  to  prevent  that. 

He  began  by  making  many  complaints  of  my  unwilhngness  to 
trust  myself  with  him,  and  begged  to  know  what  could  be  the 
reason  ?  This  question  so  much  embarrassed  me,  that  I  could 
not  tell  what  to  answer,  but  only  said,  that  I  was  sorry  to  have 
taken  up  so  much  of  his  time. 

"Oh,  Miss  Anville,"  (cried  he,  taking  my  hand),  "if  you  knew 
with  what  transport  I  would  dedicate  to  you  not  only  the  present 
but  all  the  future  time  allotted  to  me,  you  would  not  injure  me 
by  making  such  an  apology." 

I  could  not  think  of  a  word  to  say  to  this,  nor  to  a  great  many 
other  equally  fine  speeches  with  which  he  ran  on,  though  I  would 
fain  have  withdrawn  my  hand,  and  made  almost  continual 
attempts ;  but  in  vain,  for  he  actually  grasped  it  between  both 
his,  without  any  regard  to  my  resistance.  . 

Soon  after,  he  said  that  he  believed  the  coachman  was  going 
the  wrong  way,  and  he  called  to  his  servant,  and  gave  him 
directions.  Then  again  addressing  himself  to  me,  "How  often, 
how  assiduously  have  I  sought  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you, 
without  the  presence  of  that  brute  Captain  Mirvan  !  Fortune 
has  now  kindly  favoured  me  with  one,  and  permit  me"  (again 
seizing  my  hand)  "permit  me  to  use  it,  in  telling  you  that  I 
adore  you." 

I  was  quite  thunderstruck  at  this  abrupt  and  unexpected  dec- 


EVELINA  479 

laration.  For  some  moments  I  was  silent,  but,  when  I  recovered 
from  my  surprise,  I  said,  "Indeed,  Sir,  if  you  were  determined  to 
make  me  repent  leaving  my  own  party  so  foolishly,  you  have 
very  well  succeeded." 

"My  dearest  life,"  cried  he,  "is  it  possible  you  can  be  so 
cruel  ?  Can  your  nature  and  your  countenance  be  so  totally 
opposite  ?  Can  the  sweet  bloom  upon  those  charming  cheeks, 
which  appears  as  much  the  result  of  good-humour  as  of 
beauty " 

"O,  Sir,"  cried  I,  interrupting  him,  "this  is  very  fine;  but  I 
had  hoped  we  had  had  enough  of  this  sort  of  conversation  at  the 
Ridotto,  and  I  did  not  expect  you  would  so  soon  resume  it." 

"What  I  then  said,  my  sweet  reproacher,  was  the  effect  of  a 
mistaken,  a  prophane  idea,  that  your  understanding  held  no 
competition  with  your  beauty ;  but  now,  now  that  I  find  you 
equally  incomparable  in  both,  all  words,  all  powers  of  speech,  are 
too  feeble  to  express  the  admiration  I  feel  of  your  excellencies." 

"Indeed,"  cried  I,  "if  your  thoughts  had  any  connection  with 
your  language,  you  would  never  suppose  that  I  could  give  credit 
to  praise  so  very  much  above  my  desert." 

This  speech,  which  I  made  very  gravely,  occasioned  still 
stronger  protestations,  which  he  continued  to  pour  forth,  and  I 
continued  to  disclaim,  till  I  began  to  wonder  that  we  were  not  in 
Queen-Ann-Street,  and  begged  he  would  desire  the  coachman 
to  drive  faster. 

"And  does  this  little  moment,"  cried  he,  "which  is  the  first  of 
happiness  I  have  ever  known,  does  it  already  appear  so  long  to 
you?" 

"I  am  afraid  the  man  has  mistaken  the  way,"  answered  I, 
"or  else  we  should  ere  now  have  been  at  our  journey's  end.  I 
must  beg  you  will  speak  to  him." 

"And  can  you  think  me  so  much  my  own  enemy?  —  if  my 
good  genius  has  inspired  the  man  with  a  desire  of  prolonging  my 
happiness,  can  you  expect  that  I  should  counter-act  its  indul- 
gence?" 

I  now  began  to  apprehend  that  he  had  himself  ordered  the  man 
to  go  a  wrong  way,  and  I  was  so  much  alarmed  at  the  idea,  that, 
the  very  instant  it  occurred  to  me,  I  let  down  the  glass,  and  made 


48o  FANNY  BURNEY 

a  sudden  effort  to  open  the  chariot-door  myself,  with  a  view  of 
jumping  into  the  street ;  but  he  caught  hold  of  me,  exclaiming, 
"For  Heaven's  sake,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  cried  I,  (quite  out  of  breath)  "but  I  am 
sure  the  man  goes  wrong,  and,  if  you  will  not  speak  to  him,  I  am 
determined  I  will  get  out  myself." 

"You  amaze  me,"  answered  he,  (still  holding  me)  "I  cannot 
imagine  what  you  apprehend.  Surely  you  can  have  no  doubts 
of  my  honour?" 

He  drew  me  towards  him  as  he  spoke.  I  was  frightened 
dreadfully,  and  could  hardly  say,  "No,  Sir,  no,  —  none  at  all,  — 
only  Mrs.  Mirvan,  —  I  think  she  will  be  uneasy." 

"Whence  this  alarm,  my  dearest  angel  ?  —  What  can  you  fear  ? 
—  My  life  is  at  your  devotion,  and  can  you,  then,  doubt  my  pro- 
tection?" 

And  so  saying,  he  passionately  kissed  my  hand. 

Never,  in  my  whole  life,  have  I  been  so  terrified.  I  broke 
forcibly  from  him,  and,  putting  my  head  out  of  the  window, 
called  aloud  to  the  man  to  stop.  Where  we  then  were  I  know  not, 
but  I  saw  not  a  human  being,  or  I  should  have  called  for  help. 

Sir  Clement,  with  great  earnestness,  endeavoured  to  appease 
and  compose  me ;  "If  you  do  not  intend  to  murder  me,"  cried  I, 
"for  mercy's,  for  pity's  sake,  let  me  get  out !" 

"Compose  your  spirits,  my  dearest  life,"  cried  he,  "and  I  will 
do  every  thing  that  you  would  have  me."  And  then  he  called  to 
the  man  himself,  and  bid  him  make  haste  to  Queen-Ann-Street. 
"This  stupid  fellow,"  continued  he,  "has  certainly  mistaken 
my  orders ;   but  I  hope  you  are  now  fully  satisfied." 

I  made  no  answer,  but  kept  my  head  at  the  window,  watching 
which  way  he  drove,  but  without  any  comfort  to  myself,  as  I 
was  quite  unacquainted  with  either  the  right  or  the  wrong. 

Sir  Clement  now  poured  forth  abundant  protestations  of 
honour,  and  assurances  of  respect,  entreating  my  pardon  for 
having  offended  me,  and  beseeching  my  good  opinion :  but  I 
was  quite  silent,  having  too  much  apprehension  to  make  re- 
proaches, and  too  much  anger  to  speak  without. 

In  this  manner  we  went  through  several  streets,  till  at  last, 
to  my  great  terror,  he  suddenly  ordered  the  man  to  stop,  and 


EVELINA  481 

said,  "Miss  Anville,  we  are  now  within  twenty  yards  of  your  house ; 
but  I  cannot  bear  to  part  with  you,  till  you  generously  forgive 
me  for  the  offence  you  have  taken,  and  promise  not  to  make  it 
known  to  the  Mirvans." 

I  hesitated  between  fear  and  indignation. 

"Your  reluctance  to  speak,  redoubles  my  contrition  for  having 
displeased  you,  since  it  shews  the  reliance  I  might  have  on  a 
promise  which  you  will  not  give  without  consideration." 

"I  am  very,  very  much  distressed,"  cried  I;  "you  ask  a  promise 
which  you  must  be  sensible  I  ought  not  to  grant,  and  yet  dare 
not  refuse." 

"Drive  on!"  cried  he  to  the  coachman;  —  "Miss  Anville,  I 
will  not  compel  you ;  I  will  exact  no  promise,  but  trust  wholly 
to  your  generosity." 

This  rather  softened  me ;  which  advantage  he  no  sooner  per- 
ceived, than  he  determined  to  avail  himself  of,  for  he  flung 
himself  on  his  knees,  and  pleaded  with  so  much  submission, 
that  I  was  really  obliged  to  forgive  him,  because  his  humiliation 
made  me  quite  ashamed  :  and,  after  that,  he  would  not  let  me 
rest  till  I  gave  him  my  word  that  I  would  not  complain  of  him 
to  Mrs.  Mirvan. 

My  own  folly  and  pride,  which  had  put  me  in  his  power,  were 
pleas  which  I  could  not  but  attend  to  in  his  favour.  However, 
I  shall  take  very  particular  care  never  to  be  again  alone  with  him. 

When,  at  last,  we  arrived  at  our  house,  I  was  so  overjoyed 
that  I  should  certainly  have  pardoned  him  then,  if  I  had  not  be- 
fore. As  he  handed  me  up  stairs,  he  scolded  his  servant  aloud, 
and  very  angrily,  for  having  gone  so  much  out  of  the  way.  Miss 
Mirvan  ran  out  to  meet  me,  —  and  who  should  I  see  behind  her, 
but  —  Lord  Orville  ! 

All  my  joy  now  vanished,  and  gave  place  to  shame  and  con- 
fusion ;  for  I  could  not  endure  that  he  should  know  how  long  a 
time  Sir  Clement  and  I  had  been  together,  since  I  was  not  at 
liberty  to  assign  any  reason  for  it. 

They  all  expressed  great  satisfaction  at  seeing  me,  and  said 
they  had  been  extremely  uneasy  and  surprised  that  I  was  so 
long  coming  home,  as  they  had  heard  from  Lord  Orville  that  I 
was  not  with  Madame  Duval.     Sir  Clement,  in  an  affected  pas- 


482  FANNY  BURNEY 

sion,  said  that  his  booby  of  a  servant  had  misunderstood  his 
orders,  and  was  driving  us  to  the  upper  end  of  Piccadilly.  For 
my  part,  I  only  coloured,  for  though  I  would  not  forfeit  my  word, 
I  yet  disdained  to  confirm  a  tale  in  which  I  had  myself  no  beHef . 

Lord  Orville,  with  great  politeness,  congratulated  me,  that 
the  troubles  of  the  evening  had  so  happily  ended,  and  said, 
that  he  had  found  it  impossible  to  return  home,  before  he  enquired 
after  my  safety. 

In  a  very  short  time  he  took  his  leave,  and  Sir  Clement  fol- 
lowed him.  As  soon  as  they  were  gone,  Mrs.  Mirvan,  though 
with  great  softness,  blamed  me  for  having  quitted  Madame 
Duval.  I  assured  her,  and  with  truth,  that  for  the  future  I 
would  be  more  prudent. 

The  adventures  of  the  evening  so  much  disconcerted  me, 
that  I  could  not  sleep  all  night.  I  am  under  the  most  cruel 
apprehensions,  lest  Lord  Orville  should  suppose  my  being  on 
the  gallery-stairs  with  Sir  Clement  was  a  concerted  scheme,  and 
even  that  our  continuing  so  long  together  in  his  chariot,  was  with 
my  approbation,  since  I  did  not  say  a  word  on  the  subject,  nor 
express  any  dissatisfaction  at  the  coachman's  pretended  blunder. 

Yet  his  coming  hither  to  wait  our  arrival,  though  it  seems  to 
imply  some  doubt,  shews  also  some  anxiety.  Indeed  Miss 
Mirvan  says,  that  he  appeared  extremely  anxious,  nay  uneasy  and 
impatient  for  my  return.  If  I  did  not  fear  to  flatter  myself, 
I  should  think  it  not  impossible  but  that  he  had  a  suspicion  of 
Sir  Clement's  design,  and  was  therefore  concerned  for  my  safety. 

What  a  long  letter  is  this  !  however,  I  shall  not  write  many 
more  from  London,  for  the  Captain  said  this  morning  that  he 
would  leave  town  on  Tuesday  next.  Madame  Duval  will  dine 
here  to-day,  and  then  she  is  to  be  told  his  intention. 

I  am  very  much  amazed  that  she  accepted  Mrs.  Mirvan's 
invitation,  as  she  was  in  such  wrath  yesterday.  I  fear  that  to-day 
I  shall  myself  be  the  principal  object  of  her  displeasure ;  but  I 
must  submit  patiently,  for  I  cannot  defend  myself. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  Sir.  Should  this  letter  be  productive  of 
any  uneasiness  to  you,  more  than  ever  shall  I  repent  the  heedless 
imprudence  which  it  recites. 

********  ** 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO 

HORACE   WALPOLE 

CHAPTER   I 

Manfred,  Prince  of  Otranto,  had  one  son  and  one  daughter : 
the  latter,  a  most  beautiful  virgin,  aged  eighteen,  was  called 
Matilda.  Conrad,  the  son,  was  three  years  younger,  a  homely 
youth,  sickly,  and  of  no  promising  disposition ;  yet  he  was  the 
darling  of  his  father,  who  never  showed  any  symptoms  of  affec- 
tion to  Matilda.  Manfred  had  contracted  a  marriage  for  his 
son  with  the  Marquis  of  Vicenza's  daughter,  Isabella ;  and  she 
had  already  been  delivered  by  her  guardians  into  the  hands  of 
Manfred,  that  he  might  celebrate  the  wedding  as  soon  as  Conrad's 
infirm  state  of  health  would  permit.  Manfred's  impatience  for 
this  ceremonial  was  remarked  by  his  family  and  neighbours. 
The  former,  indeed,  apprehending  the  severity  of  their  prince's 
disposition,  did  not  dare  to  utter  their  surmises  on  this  precipita- 
tion. Hippolita,  his  wife,  an  amiable  lady,  did  sometimes 
venture  to  represent  the  danger  of  marrying  their  only  son  so 
early,  considering  his  great  youth  and  greater  infirmities ;  but 
she  never  received  any  other  answer  than  reflections  on  her  own 
sterility,  who  had  given  him  but  one  heir.  His  tenants  and  sub- 
jects were  less  cautious  in  their  discourses :  they  attributed  this 
hasty  wedding  to  the  prince's  dread  of  seeing  accomplished  an 
ancient  prophecy,  which  was  said  to  have  pronounced,  that  the 
Castle  and  Lordship  of  Otranto  should  pass  from  the  present 
family  whenever  the  real  owner  should  be  grown  too  large  to  in- 
habit it.  It  was  difficult  to  make  any  sense  of  this  prophecy ;  and 
still  less  easy  to  conceive  what  it  had  to  do  with  the  marriage  in 
question.  Yet  these  mysteries,  or  contradictions,  did  not  make 
the  populace  adhere  the  less  to  their  opinion. 

Young  Conrad's  birth-day  was  fixed  for  his  espousals.     The 

483 


484  HORACE   WALPOLE 

company  was  assembled  in  the  chapel  of  the  castle,  and  every- 
thing ready  for  beginning  the  divine  office,  when  Conrad  himself 
was  missing.  Manfred,  impatient  of  the  least  delay,  and  who  had 
not  observed  his  son  retire,  dispatched  one  of  his  attendants 
to  summon  the  young  prince.  The  servant,  who  had  not  staid 
long  enough  to  have  crossed  the  court  to  Conrad's  apartment, 
came  running  back  breathless,  in  a  frantic  manner,  his  eyes 
staring,  and  foaming  at  the  mouth.  He  said  nothing,  but  pointed 
to  the  court.  The  company  were  struck  with  terror  and  amaze- 
ment. The  princess  HippoHta,  without  knowing  what  was  the 
matter,  but  anxious  for  her  son,  swooned  away.  Manfred,  less 
apprehensive  than  enraged  at  the  procrastination  of  the  nuptials, 
and  at  the  folly  of  his  domestic,  asked  imperiously  what  was  the 
matter?  The  fellow  made  no  answer,  but  continued  pointing 
towards  the  court-yard;  and  at  last,  after  repeated  questions 
put  to  him,  cried  out,  "Oh  !  the  helmet !  the  helmet  !" 

In  the  meantime  some  of  the  company  had  run  into  the  court, 
from  whence  was  heard  a  confused  noise  of  shrieks,  horror,  and 
surprise.  Manfred,  who  began  to  be  alarmed  at  not  seeing  his 
son,  went  himself  to  get  information  of  what  occasioned  this 
strange  confusion.  Matilda  remained,  endeavouring  to  assist  her 
mother,  and  Isabella  staid  for  the  same  purpose,  and  to  avoid 
showing  any  impatience  for  the  bridegroom,  for  whom,  in  truth, 
she  had  conceived  little  affection. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  Manfred's  eyes  was  a  group  of  his 
servants  endeavouring  to  raise  something  that  appeared  to  him 
a  mountain  of  sable  plumes.  He  gazed  without  beheving  his 
sight. 

"What  are  ye  doing  ?"  cried  Manfred,  wrathfully  :  "where  is 
my  son?" 

A  volley  of  voices  replied,  "Oh  !  my  lord  !  the  prince  !  the 
prince  !  the  helmet !  the  helmet !" 

Shocked  with  these  lamentable  sounds,  and  dreading  he  knew 
not  what,  he  advanced  hastily,  —  but  what  a  sight  for  a  father's 
eyes  !  he  beheld  his  child  dashed  to  pieces,  and  almost  buried 
under  an  enormous  helmet,  a  hundred  times  larger  than  any 
casque  ever  made  for  human  being,  and  shaded  with  a  propor- 
tionable quantity  of  black  feathers. 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  485 

The  horror  of  the  spectacle,  the  ignorance  of  all  around  how 
this  misfortune  had  happened,  and,  above  all,  the  tremendous 
phenomenon  before  him,  took  away  the  prince's  speech.  Yet 
his  silence  lasted  longer  than  even  grief  could  occasion.  He 
fixed  his  eyes  on  what  he  wished  in  vain  to  believe  a  vision; 
and  seemed  less  attentive  to  his  loss  than  buried  in  meditation 
on  the  stupendous  object  that  had  occasioned  it.  He  touched, 
he  examined  the  fatal  casque :  nor  could  even  the  bleeding 
mangled  remains  of  the  young  prince  divert  the  eyes  of  Manfred 
from  the  portent  before  him.  All  who  had  known  his  partial 
fondness  for  young  Conrad  were  as  much  surprised  at  their 
prince's  insensibility,  as  thunderstruck  themselves  at  the  miracle 
o.f  the  helmet.  They  conveyed  the  disfigured  corpse  into  the  hall, 
without  receiving  the  least  direction  from  Manfred.  As  Httle 
was  he  attentive  to  the  ladies  who  remained  in  the  chapel : 
on  the  contrary,  without  mentioning  the  unhappy  princesses, 
his  wife  and  daughter,  the  first  sounds  that  dropped  from  Man- 
fred's lips  were,  "Take  care  of  the  lady  Isabella." 

The  domestics,  without  observing  the  singularity  of  this  direc- 
tion, were  guided  by  their  affection  to  their  mistress,  to  consider 
it  as  pecuharly  addressed  to  her  situation,  and  flew  to  her  assist- 
ance. They  conveyed  her  to  her  chamber  more  dead  than  alive, 
and  indifferent  to  all  the  strange  circumstances  she  heard,  except 
the  death  of  her  son.  Matilda,  who  doted  on  her  mother, 
smothered  her  own  grief  and  amazement,  and  thought  of  nothing 
but  assisting  and  comforting  her  afflicted  parent.  Isabella, 
who  had  been  treated  by  Hippolita  like  a  daughter,  and  who  re- 
turned that  tenderness  with  equal  duty  and  affection,  was  scarcely 
less  assiduous  about  the  princess  ;  at  the  same  time  endeavouring 
to  partake  and  lessen  the  weight  of  sorrow  which  she  saw  Matilda 
strove  to  suppress,  for  whom  she  had  conceived  the  warmest 
sympathy  of  friendship :  yet  her  own  situation  could  not  help 
finding  its  place  in  her  thoughts.  She  felt  no  concern  for  the 
death  of  young  Conrad,  except  commiseration  ;  and  she  was  not 
sorry  to  be  delivered  from  a  marriage  which  had  promised  her 
httle  fehcity,  either  from  her  destined  bridegroom,  or  from 
the  severe  temper  of  Manfred ;  who,  though  he  had  distinguished 
her  by  great  indulgence,  had  imprinted  her  mind  with  terror, 


486  HORACE  WALPOLE 

from  his  causeless  rigour  to  such  amiable  princesses  as  Hippolita 
and  Matilda. 

While  the  ladies  were  conveying  the  wretched  mother  to  her 
bed,  Manfred  remained  in  the  court,  gazing  on  the  ominous 
casque,  and  regardless  of  the  crowd  which  the  strangeness  of  the 
event  had  now  assembled  around  him ;  the  few  words  he  artic- 
ulated tending  solely  to  inquiries,  whether  any  man  knew  from 
whence  it  could  have  come  ?  Nobody  could  give  him  the  least 
information.  However,  as  it  seemed  to  be  the  sole  object  of 
his  curiosity,  it  soon  became  so  to  the  rest  of  the  spectators, 
whose  conjectures  were  as  absurd  and  improbable,  as  the  castas- 
trophe  itself  was  unprecedented. 

In  the  midst  of  their  senseless  guesses,  a  young  peasant, 
whom  rumour  had  drawn  thither  from  a  neighbouring  village, 
observed  that  the  miraculous  helmet  was  exactly  like  that 
on  the  figure  in  black  marble  of  Alfonso  the  Good,  one  of  their 
former  princes,  in  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas. 

"Villain!  what  sayest  thou!"  cried  Manfred,  starting  from 
his  trance  in  a  tempest  of  rage,  and  seizing  the  young  man  by 
the  collar.  "How  darest  thou  utter  such  treason  ?  thy  life  shall 
pay  for  it." 

The  spectators,  who  as  little  comprehended  the  cause  of  the 
prince's  fury  as  all  the  rest  they  had  seen,  were  at  a  loss  to  unravel 
this  new  circumstance.  The  young  peasant  himself  was  still 
more  astonished,  not  conceiving  how  he  had  offended  the  prince  : 
yet,  recollecting  himself,  with  a  mixture  of  grace  and  humility, 
he  disengaged  himself  from  Manfred's  gripe,  and  then,  with  an 
obeisance  which  discovered  more  jealousy  of  innocence  than  dis- 
may, he  asked,  with  respect,  of  what  he  was  guilty  ? 

Manfred,  more  enraged  at  the  vigour,  however  decently 
exerted,  with  which  the  young  man  had  shaken  off  his  hold, 
than  appeased  by  his  submission,  ordered  his  attendants  to  seize 
him,  and,  if  he  had  not  been  withheld  by  his  friends,  whom  he 
had  invited  to  the  nuptials,  would  have  poniarded  the  peasant 
in  their  arms. 

During  this  altercation,  some  of  the  vulgar  spectators  had  run 
to  the  great  church,  which  stood  near  the  castle,  and  came 
back   open-mouthed,    declaring   that   the   helmet   was  missing 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  487 

from  Alfonso's  statue.  Manfred,  at  this  news,  grew  perfectly 
frantic  ;  and,  as  if  he  sought  a  subject  on  which  to  vent  the  tem- 
pest within  him,  he  rushed  again  on  the  young  peasant,  crying, 
"Villain  !  monster  !  sorcerer  !  it  is  thou  hast  done  this  !  it  is 
thou  hast  slain  my  son  ! " 

The  mob,  who  wanted  some  object  within  the  scope  of  their 
capacities,  on  whom  they  might  discharge  their  bewildered 
reasonings,  caught  the  words  from  the  mouth  of  their  lord,  and 
re-echoed,  "Ay,  ay;  it  is  he,  it  is  he :  he  has  stolen  the  helmet 
from  good  Alfonso's  tomb,  and  dashed  out  the  brains  of  our 
young  prince  with  it;"  never  reflecting  how  enormous  the  dis- 
proportion was  between  the  marble  helmet  that  had  been  in 
the  church,  and  that  of  steel  before  their  eyes ;  nor  how  impos- 
sible it  was  for  a  youth,  seemingly  not  twenty,  to  wield  a  piece 
of  armour  of  so  prodigious  a  weight. 

The  folly  of  these  ejaculations  brought  Manfred  to  himself : 
yet,  whether  provoked  at  the  peasant  having  observed  the  re- 
semblance between  the  two  helmets,  and  thereby  led  to  the 
farther  discovery  of  the  absence  of  that  in  the  church  ;  or  wishing 
to  bury  any  such  rumour  under  so  impertinent  a  supposition  ;  he 
gravely  pronounced  that  the  young  man  was  certainly  a  necro- 
mancer, and  that  till  the  church  should  take  cognizance  of  the 
affair,  he  would  have  the  magician,  whom  they  had  thus  detected, 
kept  prisoner  under  the  helmet  itself,  which  he  ordered  his  attend- 
ants to  raise,  and  place  the  young  man  under  it ;  declaring  that 
he  should  be  kept  there  without  food,  with  which  his  own  infernal 
art  might  furnish  him. 

It  was  in  vain  for  the  youth  to  represent  against  this  preposter- 
ous sentence ;  in  vain  did  Manfred's  friends  endeavour  to  divert 
him  from  the  savage  and  ill-grounded  resolution.  The  generality 
were  charmed  with  their  lord's  decision,  which,  to  their  appre- 
hensions, carried  great  appearance  of  justice,  as  the  magician 
was  to  be  punished  by  the  very  instrument  with  which  he  had 
offended  :  nor  were  they  struck  with  the  least  compunction  at  the 
probability  of  the  youth  being  starved,  for  they  firmly  believed 
that,  by  his  diabolic  skill,  he  could  easily  supply  himself  with 
nutriment. 

Manfred   thus  saw  his  commands  even   cheerfully  obeyed ; 


488  HORACE   WALPOLE 

and,  appointing  a  guard  with  strict  orders  to  prevent  any  food 
being  conveyed  to  the  prisoner,  he  dismissed  his  friends  and 
attendants,  and  retired  to  his  own  chamber,  after  locking  the 
gates  of  the  castle,  in  which  he  suffered  none  but  his  domestics 
to  remain. 

In  the  meantime,  the  care  and  zeal  of  the  young  ladies  had 
brought  the  Princess  Hippolita  to  herself;  who,  amidst  the 
transports  of  her  own  sorrow,  frequently  demanded  news  of 
her  lord,  would  have  dismissed  her  attendants  to  watch  over 
him,  and  at  last  enjoined  Matilda  to  leave  her,  and  visit  and 
comfort  her  father. 

Matilda,  who  wanted  no  affectionate  duty  to  Manfred, 
though  she  trembled  at  his  austerity,  obeyed  the  orders  of 
Hippolita,  whom  she  tenderly  recommended  to  Isabella ;  and, 
inquiring  of  the  domestics  for  her  father,  was  informed  that  he 
was  retired  to  his  chamber,  and  had  commanded  that  nobody 
should  have  admittance  to  him.  Concluding  that  he  was 
immersed  in  sorrow  for  the  death  of  her  brother,  and  fearing  to 
renew  his  tears  by  the  sight  of  his  sole  remaining  child,  she 
hesitated  whether  she  should  break  in  upon  his  affliction ;  yet 
soHcitude  for  him,  backed  by  the  commands  of  her  mother, 
encouraged  her  to  venture  disobeying  the  orders  he  had  given  : 
a  fault  she  had  never  been  guilty  of  before. 

The  gentle  timidity  of  her  nature  made  her  pause  for  some 
minutes  at  his  door.  She  heard  him  traverse  his  chamber 
backwards  and  forwards  with  disordered  steps ;  a  mood  which 
increased  her  apprehensions.  She  was,  however,  just  going  to 
beg  admittance,  when  Manfred  suddenly  opened  the  door; 
and  as  it  was  now  twilight,  concurring  with  the  disorder  of  his 
mind,  he  did  not  distinguish  the  person,  but  asked  angrily  who  it 
was?  Matilda  rephed,  trembling,  "My  dearest  father,  it  is  I, 
your  daughter."  Manfred,  stepping  back  hastily,  cried, 
"Begone,  I  do  not  want  a  daughter ;"  and  flinging  back  abruptly, 
clapped  the  door  against  the  terrified  Matilda. 

She  was  too  well  acquainted  with  her  father's  impetuosity 
to  venture  a  second  intrusion.  When  she  had  a  Httle  recovered 
the  shock  of  so  bitter  a  reception,  she  wiped  away  her  tears,  to 
prevent  the  additional  stab  that  the  knowledge  of  it  would  give 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  489 

to  Hippolita,  who  questioned  her  in  the  most  anxious  terms  on 
the  health  of  Manfred,  and  how  he  bore  his  loss.  Matilda 
assured  her  he  was  well,  and  supported  his  misfortunes  with 
manly  fortitude. 

''But  will  he  not  let  me  see  him  ?"  said  HippoHta,  mournfully ; 
"will  he  not  permit  me  to  blend  my  tears  with  his,  and  shed  a 
mother's  sorrows  in  the  bosom  of  her  lord  ?  Or  do  you  deceive 
me,  Matilda  ?  I  know  how  Manfred  doted  on  his  son  :  is  not 
the  stroke  too  heavy  for  him  ?  has  he  not  sunk  under  it  ?  You 
do  not  answer  me  —  alas  !  I  dread  the  worst !  —  raise  me,  my 
maidens,  I  will,  I  will  see  my  lord.  Bear  me  to  him  instantly ; 
he  is  dearer  to  me  even  than  my  children." 

Matilda  made  signs  to  Isabella  to  prevent  Hippolita's  rising ; 
and  both  these  lovely  young  women  were  using  their  gentle 
violence  to  stop  and  calm  the  princess,  when  a  servant  on  the 
part  of  Manfred  arrived,  and  told  Isabella  that  his  lord  demanded 
to  speak  with  her. 

"With  me ! "  cried  Isabella. 

"Go,"  said  HippoHta,  reheved  by  a  message  from  her  lord: 
"Manfred  cannot  support  the  sight  of  his  own  family.  He 
thinks  you  less  disordered  than  we  are,  and  dreads  the  shock 
of  my  grief.  Console  him,  my  dear  Isabella,  and  tell  him  I  will 
smother  my  own  anguish  rather  than  add  to  his." 

As  it  was  now  evening,  the  servant,  who  conducted  Isabella, 
bore  a  torch  before  her.  When  they  came  to  Manfred,  who  was 
walking  impatiently  about  the  gallery,  he  started,  and  said, 
hastily,  "Take  away  that  light,  and  begone."  Then  shutting 
the  door  impetuously,  he  flung  himself  upon  a  bench  against 
the  wall,  and  bade  Isabella  sit  by  him.  She  obeyed, 
trembling. 

"I  sent  for  you,  lady,"  said  he ;  and  then  stopped  under  great 
appearance  of  confusion. 

"My  lord!" 

"Yes,  I  sent  for  you  on  a  matter  of  great  moment,"  resumed  he  : 
"Dry  your  tears,  young  lady  —  you  have  lost  your  bridegroom. 
Yes,  cruel  fate  !  and  I  have  lost  the  hopes  of  my  race  !  but  Con- 
rad was  not  worthy  of  your  beauty." 

"How,  my  lord,"  said  Isabella;    "sure  you  do  not  suspect 


490  HORACE   WALPOLE 

me  of  not  feeling  the  concern  I  ought ;  my  duty  and  affection 
would  have  always  — " 

"Think  no  more  of  him,"  interrupted  Manfred;  "he  was  a 
sickly,  puny  child,  and  Heaven  has,  perhaps,  taken  him  away, 
that  I  might  not  trust  the  honours  of  my  house  on  so  frail  a 
foundation.  The  Hne  of  Manfred  calls  for  numerous  supports. 
My  foolish  fondness  for  that  boy  blinded  the  eyes  of  my  prudence 
—  but  it  is  better  as  it  is.  I  hope,  in  a  few  years,  to  have  reason 
to  rejoice  at  the  death  of  Conrad." 

Words  cannot  paint  the  astonishment  of  Isabella.  At  first 
she  apprehended  that  grief  had  disordered  Manfred's  understand- 
ing. Her  next  thought  suggested  that  this  strange  discourse 
was  designed  to  ensnare  her ;  she  feared  that  Manfred  had  per- 
ceived her  indifference  for  his  son :  and  in  consequence  of  that 
idea  she  rephed,  "Good,  my  lord,  do  not  doubt  my  tenderness  : 
my  heart  would  have  accompanied  my  hand.  Conrad  would 
have  engrossed  all  my  care ;  and  wherever  fate  shall  dispose  of 
me,  I  shall  always  cherish  his  memory,  and  regard  your  highness 
and  the  virtuous  Hippo lita  as  my  parents." 

"Curse  on  Hippohta  !"  cried  Manfred :  "forget  her  from  this 
moment,  as  I  do.  In  short,  lady,  you  have  missed  a  husband, 
undeserving  of  your  charms  :  they  shall  now  be  better  disposed  of. 
Instead  of  a  sickly  boy,  you  shall  have  a  husband  in  the  prime 
of  his  age,  who  will  know  how  to  value  your  beauties,  and  who 
may  expect  a  numerous  offspring." 

"Alas!  my  lord!"  said  Isabella,  "my  mind  is  too  sadly  en- 
grossed by  the  recent  catastrophe  in  your  family  to  think  of 
another  marriage.  If  ever  my  father  returns,  and  it  shall 
be  his  pleasure,  I  shall  obey,  as  I  did  when  I  consented  to  give  my 
hand  to  your  son :  but,  until  his  return,  permit  me  to  remain 
under  your  hospitable  roof,  and  employ  the  melancholy  hours  in 
assuaging  yours,  HippoHta's,  and  the  fair  Matilda's  afiiiction." 

"I  desired  you  once  before,"  said  Manfred  angrily,  "not  to 
name  that  woman  :  from  this  hour  she  must  be  a  stranger  to  you, 
as  she  must  be  to  me ;  —  in  short,  Isabella,  since  I  cannot  give 
you  my  son,  I  offer  you  myself." 

"Heavens,"  cried  Isabella,  waking  from  her  delusion,  "what 
do    I    hear !     You  !    my    lord  !     You  1    my    father-in-law !    the 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  491 

father  of  Conrad  !  the  husband  of  the  virtuous  and  tender 
HippoUta!" 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Manfred,  imperiously,  "HippoHta  is  no 
longer  my  wife;  I  divorce  her  from  this  hour.  Too  long  has 
she  cursed  me  by  her  unfruitfulness.  My  fate  depends  on 
having  sons,  —  and  this  night  I  trust  will  give  a  new  date  to  my 
hopes." 

At  these  words  he  seized  the  cold  hand  of  Isabella,  who  was 
half  dead  with  fright  and  horror.  She  shrieked,  and  started 
from  him.  Manfred  rose  to  pursue  her,  when  the  moon,  which 
was  now  up,  and  gleamed  in  at  the  opposite  casement,  pre- 
sented to  his  sight  the  plumes  of  the  fatal  helmet,  which  rose 
to  the  height  of  the  windows,  waving  backwards  and  forwards  in 
a  tempestuous  manner,  and  accompanied  with  a  hollow  and 
rustling  sound. 

Isabella,  who  gathered  courage  from  her  situation,  and  who 
dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  Manfred's  pursuit  of  his  declaration, 
cried,  "Look!  my  lord;  see,  Heaven  itself  declares  against 
your  impious  intentions  !" 

"Heaven  nor  hell  shall  impede  my  designs,"  said  Manfred, 
advancing  to  seize  the  princess. 

At  that  instant  the  portrait  of  his  grandfather,  which  hung 
over  the  bench  where  he  had  been  sitting,  uttered  a  deep  sigh, 
and  heaved  its  breast. 

Isabella,  whose  back  was  turned  to  the  picture,  saw  not  the 
motion,  nor  knew  whence  the  sound  came,  but  started,  and 
said,  "Hark,  my  lord!  What  sound  was  that?"  and,  at  the 
same  time,  made  towards  the  door. 

Manfred,  distracted  between  the  flight  of  Isabella,  who  had  now 
reached  the  stairs,  and  yet  unable  to  keep  his  eyes  from  the 
picture,  which  began  to  move,  had,  however,  advanced  some 
steps  after  her,  still  looking  backwards  on  the  portrait,  when 
he  saw  it  quit  its  panel,  and  descend  to  the  floor,  with  a  grave 
and  melancholy  air. 

"Do  I  dream?"  cried  Manfred,  returning;  "or  are  the 
devils  themselves  in  league  against  me  !  Speak,  infernal  spectre  ! 
or,  if  thou  art  my  grandsire,  why  dost  thou  too  conspire  against 
thy  wretched  descendant,  who  too  dearly  pays  for "  ere 


492  HORACE  WALPOLE 

he  could  finish  the  sentence,  the  vision  sighed  again,  and  made 
a  sign  to  Manfred  to  follow  him. 

"Lead  on  !"  cried  Manfred,  ''I  will  follow  thee  to  the  gulf  of 
perdition." 

The  spectre  marched  sedately,  but  dejected,  to  the  end  of  the 
gallery,  and  turned  into  a  chamber  on  the  right  hand.  Manfred 
accompanied  him  at  a  little  distance,  full  of  anxiety  and  horror, 
but  resolved.  As  he  would  have  entered  the  chamber,  the  door 
was  clapped  to,  with  violence,  by  an  invisible  hand.  The 
prince,  collecting  courage  from  this  delay,  would  have  forcibly 
burst  open  the  door  with  his  foot,  but  found  that  it  resisted  his 
utmost  efforts. 

"Since  hell  will  not  satisfy  my  curiosity,"  said  Manfred, 
"I  will  use  the  human  means  in  my  power  for  preserving  my 
race;   Isabella  shall  not  escape  me." 

The  lady,  whose  resolution  had  given  way  to  terror,  the 
moment  she  had  quitted  Manfred,  continued  her  flight  to  the 
bottom  of  the  principal  staircase.  There  she  stopped,  not 
knowing  whither  to  direct  her  steps,  nor  how  to  escape  from  the 
impetuosity  of  the  prince.  The  gates  of  the  castle  she  knew  were 
locked,  and  guards  were  placed  in  the  court.  Should  she,  as  her 
heart  prompted,  go  and  prepare  Hippolita  for  the  cruel  destiny 
that  awaited  her;  she  did  not  doubt  but  Manfred  would  seek 
her  there,  and  that  his  violence  would  incite  him  to  double  the 
injury  he  meditated,  without  leaving  room  for  them  to  avoid 
the  impetuosity  of  his  passions.  Delay  might  give  him  time  to 
reflect  on  the  horrid  measures  he  had  conceived,  or  produce  some 
circumstance  in  her  favour,  if  she  could  for  that  night,  at  least, 
avoid  his  odious  purpose.  Yet  where  conceal  herself  ?  how  avoid 
the  pursuit  he  would  infallibly  make  throughout  the  castle  ? 

As  these  thoughts  passed  rapidly  through  her  mind,  she  rec- 
ollected a  subterraneous  passage,  which  led  from  the  vaults 
of  the  castle  to  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas.  Could  she  reach  the 
altar  before  she  was  overtaken,  she  knew  even  Manfred's  violence 
would  not  dare  to  profane  the  sacredness  of  the  place ;  and 
she  determined,  if  no  other  means  of  deliverance  offered,  to 
shut  herself  up  for  ever  among  the  holy  virgins,  whose  convent 
was  contiguous  to  the  cathedral.     In  this  resolution,  she  seized 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  493 

a  lamp  that  burned  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and  hurried 
towards  the  secret  passage. 

The  lower  part  of  the  castle  was  hollowed  into  several  intricate 
cloisters;  and  it  was  not  easy  for  one,  under  so  much  anxiety, 
to  find  the  door  that  opened  into  the  cavern.  An  awful  silence 
reigned  throughout  those  subterraneous  regions,  except  now  and 
then  some  blasts  of  wind  that  shook  the  doors  she  had  passed, 
and  which,  grating  on  the  rusty  hinges,  were  re-echoed  through 
that  long  labyrinth  of  darkness.  Every  murmur  struck  her  with 
new  terror ;  —  yet  more  she  dreaded  to  hear  the  wrathful  voice 
of  Manfred,  urging  his  domestics  to  pursue  her.  She  trod  as 
softly  as  impatience  would  give  her  leave,  —  yet  frequently 
stopped,  and  listened,  to  hear  if  she  was  followed.  In  one  of 
those  moments  she  thought  she  heard  a  sigh.  She  shuddered, 
and  recoiled  a  few  paces.  In  a  moment  she  thought  she  heard 
the  step  of  some  person.  Her  blood  curdled ;  she  concluded  it 
was  Manfred.  Every  suggestion  that  horror  could  inspire  rushed 
into  her  mind.  She  condemned  her  rash  flight,  which  had  thus 
exposed  her  to  his  rage,  in  a  place  where  her  cries  were  not  likely 
to  draw  any  body  to  her  assistance.  Yet  the  sound  seemed  not 
to  come  from  behind :  if  Manfred  knew  where  she  was,  he  must 
have  followed  her.  She  was  still  in  one  of  the  cloisters,  and  the 
steps  she  had  heard  were  too  distinct  to  proceed  from  the  way  she 
had  come.  Cheered  with  this  reflection,  and  hoping  to  find  a 
friend  in  whoever  was  not  the  prince,  she  was  going  to  advance, 
when  a  door,  that  stood  a-jar,  at  some  distance  to  the  left,  was 
opened  gently :  but  ere  her  lamp,  which  she  held  up,  could  dis- 
cover who  opened  it,  the  person  retreated  precipitately  on  seeing 
the  light. 

Isabella,  whom  every  incident  was  sufficient  to  dismay,  hesitated 
whether  she  should  proceed.  Her  dread  of  Manfred  soon  out- 
weighed every  other  terror.  The  very  circumstance  of  the  person 
avoiding  her  gave  her  a  sort  of  courage.  It  could  only  be,  she 
thought,  some  domestic  belonging  to  the  castle.  Her  gentleness 
had  never  raised  her  an  enemy,  and  conscious  innocence  made  her 
hope  that,  unless  sent  by  the  prince's  order  to  seek  her,  his 
servants  would  rather  assist  than  prevent  her  flight.  Fortifying 
herself  with  these  reflections,  and  believing,  by  what  she  could 


494 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


observe,  that  she  was  near  the  mouth  of  the  subterraneous  cavern, 
she  approached  the  door  that  had  been  opened ;  but  a  sudden 
gust  of  wind,  that  met  her  at  the  door,  extinguished  her  lamp,  and 
left  her  in  total  darkness. 

Words  cannot  paint  the  horror  of  the  princess's  situation. 
Alone,  in  so  dismal  a  place,  her  mind  imprinted  with  all  the 
terrible  events  of  the  day,  hopeless  of  escaping,  expecting  every 
moment  the  arrival  of  Manfred,  and  far  from  tranquil,  on  know- 
ing she  was  within  reach  of  somebody,  she  knew  not  whom,  who, 
for  some  cause,  seemed  concealed  thereabout ;  all  these  thoughts 
crowded  on  her  distracted  mind,  and  she  was  ready  to  sink  under 
her  apprehensions.  She  addressed  herself  to  every  saint  in 
heaven,  and  inwardly  implored  their  assistance.  For  a  consider- 
able time  she  remained  in  an  agony  of  despair.  At  last,  as  softly 
as  was  possible,  she  felt  for  the  door,  and,  having  found  it, 
entered,  trembling,  into  the  vault  from  whence  she  had  heard  the 
sigh  and  steps.  It  gave  her  a  kind  of  momentary  joy  to  perceive 
an  imperfect  ray  of  clouded  moonshine  gleam  from  the  roof  of 
the  vault,  which  seemed  to  be  fallen  in,  and  from  whence  hung 
a  fragment  of  earth  or  building,  she  could  not  distinguish  which, 
that  appeared  to  have  been  crushed  inwards.  She  advanced 
eagerly  towards  this  chasm,  when  she  discerned  a  human  form 
standing  close  against  the  wall. 

She  shrieked,  believing  it  the  ghost  of  her  betrothed  Conrad. 
The  figure,  advancing,  said,  in  a  submissive  voice,  "Be  not 
alarmed,  lady,  I  will  not  injure  you." 

Isabella,  a  httle  encouraged  by  the  words  and  tone  of  voice  of 
the  stranger,  and  recollecting  that  this  must  be  the  person  who 
had  opened  the  door,  recovered  her  spirits  enough  to  reply, 
"  Sir,  whoever  you  arc,  take  pity  on  a  wretched  princess,  standing 
on  the  brink  of  destruction ;  assist  me  to  escape  from  this  fatal 
castle,  or,  in  a  few  moments,  I  may  be  made  miserable  for  ever." 

"Alas!"  said  the  stranger,  "what  can  I  do  to  assist  you? 
I  will  die  in  your  defence  ;  but  I  am  unacquainted  with  the  castle, 
and  want  -    " 

"Oh  !"  said  Isabella,  hastily  interrupting  him,  "help  me  but 
to  find  a  trap-door,  that  must  be  hereabout,  and  it  is  the  greatest 
service  you  can  do  me,  for  I  have  not  a  minute  to  lose." 


THE   CASTLE   OF  OTRANTO  495 

Saying  these  words,  she  felt  about  on  the  pavement,  and 
directed  the  stranger  to  search  hkewise  for  a  smooth  piece  of 
brass,  enclosed  in  one  of  the  stones.  "That,"  said  she,  "is 
the  lock,  which  opens  with  a  spring,  of  which  I  know  the  secret. 
If  we  can  find  that,  I  may  escape  —  if  not,  alas  !  courteous 
stranger,  I  fear  I  shall  have  involved  you  in  my  misfortunes : 
Manfred  will  suspect  you  as  the  accomplice  of  my  flight,  and  you 
will  fall  a  victim  to  his  resentment." 

"I  value  not  my  life,"  said  the  stranger,  "and  it  will  be  some 
comfort  to  lose  it  in  trying  to  dehver  you  from  his  tyranny." 

"  Generous  youth,"  said  Isabella,  "how  shall  I  ever  requite — ■" 
as  she  uttered  these  words,  a  ray  of  moonshine,  streaming  through 
a  cranny  of  the  ruin  above,  shone  directly  on  the  lock  they 
sought  —  "Oh!  transport!"  said  Isabella,  "here  is  the  trap- 
door !"  and  taking  out  the  key,  she  touched  the  spring,  which 
starting  aside,  discovered  an  iron  ring. 

"Lift  up  the  door,"  said  the  princess. 

The  stranger  obeyed,  and  beneath  appeared  some  stone  steps 
descending  into  a  vault  totally  dark. 

"We  must  go  down  here,"  said  Isabella:  "follow  me;  dark 
and  dismal  as  it  is,  we  cannot  miss  our  way ;  it  leads  directly  to 
the  church  of  St.  Nicholas ;  but  perhaps,"  added  the  -princess, 
modestly,  "you  have  no  reason  to  leave  the  castle,  nor  have  I 
farther  occasion  for  your  service ;  in  a  few  minutes  I  shall  be 
safe  from  Manfred's  rage  —  only  let  me  know  to  whom  I  am  so 
much  obliged." 

"I  will  never  quit  you,"  said  the  stranger  eagerly,  "until  I 
have  placed  you  in  safety  —  nor  think  me,  princess,  more  gener- 
ous than  I  am:    though  you  are  my  principal  care "     The 

stranger  was  interrupted  by  a  sudden  noise  of  voices  that  seemed 
approaching,  and  they  soon  distinguished  these  words:  "Talk 
not  to  me  of  necromancers  ;  I  tell  you  she  must  be  in  the  castle  ; 
I  will  find  her  in  spite  of  enchantment." 

"Oh  !  heavens,"  cried  Isabella,  "it  is  the  voice  of  Manfred  1 
make  haste,  or  we  are  ruined  !  and  shut  the  trap-door  after  you." 

Saying  this,  she  descended  the  steps  precipitately ;  and  as  the 
stranger  hastened  to  follow  her,  he  let  the  door  sHp  out  of  his 
hands :   it  fell,  and  the  spring  closed  over  it.     He  tried  in  vain 


496  HORACE  WALPOLE 

to  open  it,  not  having  observed  Isabella's  method  of  touching 
the  spring ;  nor  had  he  many  moments  to  make  an  essay.  The 
noise  of  the  falHng  door  had  been  heard  by  Manfred,  who, 
directed  by  the  sound,  hastened  thither,  attended  by  his  servants, 
with  torches. 

"It  must  be  Isabella,"  cried  Manfred,  before  he  entered 
the  vault;  "she  is  escaping  by  the  subterraneous  passage,  but 
she  cannot  have  got  far." 

What  was  the  astonishment  of  the  prince,  when,  instead  of 
Isabella,  the  light  of  the  torches  discovered  to  him  the  young 
peasant,  whom  he  thought  confined  under  the  fatal  helmet ! 

"Traitor  ! "  said  Manfred,  "how  camest  thou  here  ?  I  thought 
thee  in  durance  above  in  the  court." 

"I  am  no  traitor,"  replied  the  young  man  boldly,  "nor  am  I 
answerable  for  your  thoughts." 

"Presumptuous  villain  !"  cried  Manfred,  "dost  thou  provoke 
my  wrath  ?  tell  me  !  how  hast  thou  escaped  from  above  ?  thou 
hast  corrupted  thy  guards,  and  their  lives  shall  answer  it." 

"My  poverty,"  said  the  peasant,  calmly,  "will  exculpate 
them :  though  the  ministers  of  a  tyrant's  wrath,  to  thee  they 
are  faithful,  and  but  too  willing  to  execute  the  orders  which  you 
unjustly  imposed  upon  them." 

"Art  thou  so  hardy  as  to  dare  my  vengeance  ?  "  said  the  prince ; 
"but  tortures  shall  force  the  truth  from  thee.  Tell  me;  I  will 
know  thy  accomplices." 

"There  was  my  accomplice,"  said  the  youth,  smiling,  and 
pointing  to  the  roof. 

Manfred  ordered  the  torches  to  be  held  up,  and  perceived  that 
one  of  the  cheeks  of  the  enchanted  casque  had  forced  its  way 
through  the  pavement  of  the  court,  as  his  servants  had  let  it  fall 
over  the  peasant,  and  had  broken  through  into  the  vault,  leaving 
a  gap  through  which  the  peasant  had  pressed  himself,  some  min- 
utes before  he  was  found  by  Isabella. 

"Was  that  the  way  by  which  thou  didst  descend?"  said 
Manfred. 

"It  was,"  said  the  youth. 

"But  what  noise  was  that,"  said  Manfred,  "which  I  heard  as 
I  entered  the  cloister?" 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  497 

"A  door  clapped,"  said  the  peasant;  "I  heard  it  as  well  as 
you." 

"What  door?"  said  Manfred  hastily. 

"I  am  not  acquainted  with  your  castle,"  said  the  peasant; 
"this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  entered  it,  and  this  vault  the  only 
part  of  it  within  which  I  ever  was." 

"But  I  tell  thee,"  said  Manfred  (wishing  to  find  out  if  the  youth 
had  discovered  the  trap-door),  "it  was  this  way  I  heard  the  noise  : 
my  servants  heard  it  too." 

"My  lord,"  interrupted  one  of  them,  officiously,  "to  be  sure 
it  was  the  trap-door,  and  he  was  going  to  make  his  escape." 

"Peace!  blockhead,"  said  the  prince,  angrily;  "if  he  was 
going  to  escape,  how  should  he  come  on  this  side  ?  I  will  know, 
from  his  own  mouth,  what  noise  it  was  I  heard.  Tell  me  truly  ; 
thy  Hfe  depends  on  thy  veracity." 

"My  veracity  is  dearer  to  me  than  my  hfe,"  said  the  peasant ; 
"nor  would  I  purchase  the  one  by  forfeiting  the  other." 

"Indeed,  young  philosopher  !"  said  Manfred  contemptuously  ; 
"tell  me,  then,  what  was  the  noise  I  heard  ?" 

"Ask  me  what  I  can  answer,"  said  he,  "and  put  me  to  death 
instantly,  if  I  tell  you  a  he." 

Manfred,  growing  impatient  at  the  steady  valour  and  indiffer- 
ence of  the  youth,  cried,  "Well,  then,  thou  man  of  truth  !  answer 
—  was  it  the  fall  of  the  trap-door  that  I  heard  ?" 

"It  was,"  said  the  youth. 

"It  was!"  said  the  prince;  "and  how  didst  thou  come  to 
know  there  was  a  trap-door  here  ?" 

"I  saw  the  plate  of  brass,  by  a  gleam  of  moonshine," 
replied  he. 

"But  what  told  thee  it  was  a  lock?"  said  Manfred;  "how 
didst  thou  discover  the  secret  of  opening  it  ?" 

"Providence,  that  dehvered  me  from  the  helmet,  was  able  to 
direct  me  to  the  spring  of  a  lock,"  said  he. 

"Providence  should  have  gone  a  Httle  farther,  and  have 
placed  thee  out  of  the  reach  of  my  resentment,"  said  Manfred. 
"When  Providence  had  taught  thee  to  open  the  lock,  it  aban- 
doned thee  for  a  fool,  who  did  not  know  how  to  make  use  of  its 
favours.     Why  didst  thou  not  pursue  the  path  pointed  out  for 


498  HORACE  WALPOLE 

thy  escape?  Why  didst  thou  shut  the  trap-door  before  thou 
hadst  descended  the  steps?" 

"I  might  ask  you,  my  lord,"  said  the  peasant,  "how  I,  totally 
unacquainted  with  your  castle,  was  to  know  that  those  steps  led 
to  any  outlet  ?  But  I  scorn  to  evade  your  questions.  Wherever 
those  steps  lead  to,  perhaps  I  should  have  explored  the  way  —  I 
could  not  be  in  a  worse  situation  than  I  was.  But  the  truth  is, 
I  let  the  trap-door  fall ;  your  immediate  arrival  followed.  I  had 
given  the  alarm  —  what  imported  it  to  me  whether  I  was  seized 
a  minute  sooner  or  a  minute  later  ?  " 

"Thou  art  a  resolute  villain  for  thy  years,"  said  Manfred ; 
"yet,  on  reflection,  I  suspect  thou  dost  but  trifle  with  me :  thou 
hast  not  yet  told  me  how  thou  didst  open  the  lock." 

"That  I  will  show  you,  my  lord,"  said  the  peasant;  and 
taking  up  a  fragment  of  stone  that  had  fallen  from  above,  he  laid 
himself  on  the  trap-door,  and  began  to  beat  on  the  piece  of  brass 
that  covered  it,  meaning  to  gain  time  for  the  escape  of  the  princess. 

This  presence  of  mind,  joined  to  the  frankness  of  the  youth, 
staggered  Manfred.  He  even  felt  a  disposition  towards  pardon- 
ing one  who  had  been  guilty  of  no  crime.  Manfred  was  not  one 
of  those  savage  tyrants  who  wanton  in  cruelty  unprovoked.  The 
circumstances  of  his  fortune  had  given  an  asperity  to  his  temper, 
which  was  naturally  humane,  and  his  virtues  were  always  ready 
to  operate,  when  his  passions  did  not  obscure  his  reason. 

While  the  prince  was  in  this  suspense,  a  confused  noise  of 
voices  echoed  through  the  distant  vaults.  As  the  sound  ap- 
proached, he  distinguished  the  clamours  of  some  of  his  domestics, 
whom  he  had  dispersed  through  the  castle  in  search  of  Isabella, 
calling  out,  "Where  is  my  lord  ?  where  is  the  prince  ?" 

"Here  I  am,"  said  Manfred,  as  they  came  nearer;  "have  you 
found  the  princess?" 

The  first  that  arrived  rephed,  "Oh  !  my  lord  !  I  am  glad  we 
have  found  you." 

"Found  me  ! "  said  Manfred ;  " have  you  found  the  princess  ? " 

"We  thought  we  had,  my  lord,"  said  the  fellow,  looking  terri- 
fied; but, " 

"But  what?"  cried  the  prince,  "has  she  escaped?" 

"Jaquez  and  I,  my  lord  !" 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  499 

"Yes,  I  and  Diego,"  interrupted  the  second ;  who  came  up  in 
still  greater  consternation. 

"Speak  one  of  you  at  a  time,"  said  Manfred:  "I  ask  you, 
where  is  the  princess  ?  " 

"We  do  not  know,"  said  they  both  together;  "but  we  are 
frightened  out  of  our  wits." 

"So  I  think,  blockheads,"  said  Manfred:  "what  is  it  has 
scared  you  thus  ?" 

"Oh  !  my  lord,"  said  Jaquez,  "Diego  has  seen  such  a  sight ! 
your  highness  would  not  believe  our  eyes. " 

"What  new  absurdity  is  this?"  cried  Manfred:  "give  me  a 
direct  answer,  or  by  Heaven, " 

"Why,  my  lord,  if  it  please  your  highness  to  hear  me,"  said  the 
poor  fellow,  "Diego  and  I  — " 

"Yes,  I  and  Jaquez,"  cried  his  comrade. 

"Did  I  not  forbid  you  to  speak  both  at  a  time?"  said  the 
prince:  "you,  Jaquez,  answer;  for  the  other  fool  seems  more 
distracted  than  thou  art ;  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"My  gracious  lord,"  said  Jaquez,  "if  it  please  your  highness 
to  hear  me ;  Diego  and  I,  according  to  your  highness's  orders, 
went  to  search  for  the  young  lady ;  but  being  comprehensive 
that  we  might  meet  the  ghost  of  my  young  lord,  your  high- 
ness's son,  God  rest  his  soul,  as  he  has  not  received  Christian 
burial " 

"Sot,"  cried  Manfred,  in  a  rage,  "is  it  only  a  ghost,  then,  thou 
hast  seen  ?" 

"Oh  !  worse  !  worse  !  my  lord,"  cried  Diego,  "I  had  rather  have 
seen  ten  whole  ghosts." 

"Grant  me  patience  !  "  said  Manfred,  "  these  blockheads  dis- 
tract me  —  out  of  my  sight,  Diego  !  and  thou,  Jaquez,  tell  me 
in  one  word,  art  thou  sober  ?  art  thou  raving  ?  thou  wast  wont 
to  have  some  sense :  has  the  other  sot  frightened  himself  and 
thee  too  ?  speak  :  what  is  it  he  fancies  he  has  seen  ?  " 

"Why,  my  lord,"  replied  Jaquez,  trembling,  "I  was  going  to 
tell  your  highness  that  since  the  calamitous  misfortune  of  my 
young  lord,  —  God  rest  his  precious  soul !  —  not  one  of  us,  your 
highness's  faithful  servants,  —  indeed  we  are,  my  lord,  though 
poor  men,  —  I  say,  not  one  of  us  has  dared  to  set  a  foot  about 


500  HORACE  WALPOLE 

the  castle,  but  two  together :  so  Diego  and  I,  thinking  that  my 
young  lady  might  be  in  the  great  gallery,  went  up  there  to  look 
for  her,  and  tell  her  your  highness  wanted  something  to  impart  to 
her." 

"O,  blundering  fools!"  cried  Manfred;  "and  in  the  mean- 
time she  has  made  her  escape,  because  you  were  afraid  of  goblins  ! 
Why,  thou  knave  !  she  left  me  in  the  gallery ;  I  came  from  thence 
myself." 

"For  all  that  she  may  be  there  still,  for  aught  I  know,"  said 
Jaquez ;  "but  the  devil  shall  have  me  before  I  seek  her  there 
again  —  poor  Diego  !     I  do  not  believe  he  will  ever  recover  it." 

"Recover  what?"  said  Manfred:  "am  I  never  to  learn  what 
it  is  has  terrified  these  rascals  ?  But  I  lose  my  time  :  follow  me, 
slave ;  I  will  see  if  she  is  in  the  gallery." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  my  dear,  good  lord,"  cried  Jaquez, 
"do  not  go  to  the  gallery.  Satan  himself,  I  beHeve,  is  in  the 
chamber  next  to  the  gallery." 

Manfred,  who  hitherto  had  treated  the  terror  of  his  servants  as 
an  idle  panic,  was  struck  at  this  new  circumstance.  He  recol- 
lected the  apparition  of  the  portrait,  and  the  sudden  closing  of 
the  door  at  the  end  of  the  gallery  —  his  voice  faltered,  and  he 
asked  with  disorder,  "What  is  in  the  great  chamber?" 

"My  lord,"  said  Jaquez,  "when  Diego  and  I  came  into  the 
gallery,  he  went  first,  for  he  said  he  had  more  courage  than  I. 
So  when  we  came  into  the  gallery,  we  found  nobody.  We 
looked  under  every  bench  and  stool,  and  still  we  found 
nobody." 

"Were  all  the  pictures  in  their  places?"  said  Manfred. 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  answered  Jaquez;  "but  we  did  not  think  of 
looking  behind  them." 

"Well,  well !"  said  Manfred,  "proceed." 

"When  we  came  to  the  door  of  the  great  chamber,"  continued 
Jaquez,  "we  found  it  shut." 

"And  could  not  you  open  it?"  said  Manfred. 

"Oh  !  yes,  my  lord;  would  to  heaven  we  had  not !"  replied 
he  —  "nay,  it  was  not  I  neither,  it  was  Diego :  he  was  grown 
fool-hardy,  and  would  go  on,  though  I  advised  him  not :  if  ever 
I  open  a  door  that  is  shut  again " 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  501 

"Trifle  not,"  said  Manfred,  shuddering,  "but  tell  me  what 
you  saw  in  the  great  chamber,  on  opening  the  door." 

"I !  my  lord  !"  said  Jaquez,  "I  saw  nothing;  I  was  behind 
Diego  ;  but  I  heard  the  noise." 

"Jaquez,"  said  Manfred  in  a  solemn  tone  of  voice,  "tell  me, 
I  adjure  thee  by  the  souls  of  my  ancestors,  what  was  it  thou 
sawest  ?  what  was  it  thou  heardest  ?" 

"It  was  Diego  saw  it,  my  lord,  it  was  not  I,"  replied  Jaquez, 
"I  only  heard  the  noise.  Diego  had  no  sooner  opened  the  door, 
than  he  cried  out,  and  ran  back  —  I  ran  back  too,  and  said,  'Is 
it  the  ghost?'  'The  ghost !  no  !  no,'  said  Diego,  and  his  hair 
stood  on  end ;  'it  is  a  giant,  I  beheve :  he  is  all  clad  in  armour, 
for  I  saw  his  foot  and  part  of  his  leg,  and  they  are  as  large  as  the 
helmet  below  in  the  court.'  As  he  said  these  words,  my  lord,  we 
heard  a  violent  motion  and  the  rattHng  of  armour,  as  if  the  giant 
was  rising,  for  Diego  has  told  me  since,  that  he  beheves  the  giant 
was  lying  down,  for  the  foot  and  leg  were  stretched  at  length 
on  the  floor.  Before  we  could  get  to  the  end  of  the  gallery,  we 
heard  the  door  of  the  great  chamber  clap  behind  us,  but  we  did 
not  dare  turn  back  to  see  if  the  giant  was  following  us ;  yet,  now 
I  think  on  it,  we  must  have  heard  him  if  he  had  pursued  us ;  but 
for  heaven's  sake,  my  good  lord,  send  for  the  chaplain,  and  have 
the  castle  exorcised ;   for,  for  certain,  it  is  enchanted." 

"Ay,  pray  do,  my  lord,"  cried  all  the  servants  at  once,  "or  we 
must  leave  your  highness's  service." 

"Peace!  dotards,"  said  Manfred,  "and  follow  me;  I  will 
know  what  all  this  means." 

"We  !  my  lord  !"  cried  they,  with  one  voice ;  "we  would  not 
go  up  to  the  gallery  for  your  highness's  revenue." 

The  young  peasant,  who  had  stood  silent,  now  spoke.  "Will 
your  highness,"  said  he,  "permit  me  to  try  this  adventure  ?  My 
life  is  of  little  consequence  to  anybody.  I  fear  no  bad  angel, 
and  have  offended  no  good  one." 

"Your  behaviour  is  above  your  seeming,"  said  Manfred, 
viewing  him  with  surprise  and  admiration;  "hereafter  I  will 
reward  your  bravery;  but  now,"  continued  he  with  a  sigh,  "I 
am  so  circumstanced,  that  I  dare  trust  no  eyes  but  my  own ; 
however,  I  give  you  leave  to  accompany  me." 


502 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


Manfred,  when  he  first  followed  Isabella  from  the  gallery,  had 
gone  directly  to  the  apartment  of  his  wife,  concluding  the  princess 
had  retired  thither.  Hippohta,  who  knew  his  step,  rose  with 
anxious  fondness  to  meet  her  lord,  whom  she  had  not  seen  since 
the  death  of  her  son.  She  would  have  flown  in  a  transport  of 
mingled  joy  and  grief,  to  his  bosom,  but  he  pushed  her  rudely  off, 
and  said,  "Where  is  Isabella?" 

"Isabella  !  my  lord  !"  said  the  astonished  Hippohta. 

"Yes,  Isabella,"  cried  Manfred  imperiously  ;  "I  want  Isabella." 

"My  lord,"  replied  Matilda,  who  perceived  how  much  his 
behaviour  had  shocked  her  mother,  "she  has  not  been  with  us 
since  your  highness  summoned  her  to  your  apartment." 

"Tell  me  where  she  is,"  said  the  prince;  "I  do  not  want  to 
know  where  she  has  been." 

"My  good  lord,"  replied  Hippohta,  "your  daughter  tells  you 
the  truth :  Isabella  left  us  by  your  command,  and  has  not  re- 
turned since ;  but,  my  lord,  compose  yourself ;  retire  to  your 
rest :  this  dismal  day  has  disordered  you.  Isabella  shall  await 
your  orders  in  the  morning." 

"What,  then,  you  know  where  she  is  !"  cried  Manfred;  "tell 
me  directly,  for  I  will  not  lose  an  instant :  and  you,  woman," 
speaking  to  his  wife,  "order  your  chaplain  to  attend  me  forth- 
with." 

"Isabella,"  said  Hippohta,  calmly,  "is  retired,  I  suppose,  to 
her  chamber :  she  is  not  accustomed  to  watch  at  this  late  hour. 
Gracious,  my  lord,"  continued  she,  "let  me  know  what  has  dis- 
turbed you  ?     Has  Isabella  offended  you  ?  " 

"Trouble  me  not  with  questions,"  said  Manfred,  "but  tell 
me  where  she  is." 

"Matilda  shall  call  her,"  said  the  princess;  "sit  down,  my 
lord,  and  resume  your  wonted  fortitude." 

"What,  art  thou  jealous  of  Isabella?"  rephed  he,  "that  you 
wish  to  be  present  at  our  interview?" 

"Good  heavens  !  my  lord,"  said  Hippohta,  "what  is  it  your 
highness  means  ?  " 

"Thou  wilt  know  ere  many  minutes  are  passed,"  said  the  cruel 
prince.     "Send  your  chaplain  to  me,  and  wait  my  pleasure  here." 

At  these  words  he  flung  out  of  the  room  in  search  of  Isabella ; 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  503 

leaving  the  amazed  ladies  thunder-struck  with  his  words  and 
frantic  deportment,  and  lost  in  vain  conjectures  on  what  he  was 
meditating. 

Manfred  was  now  returning  from  the  vault,  attended  by  the 
peasant  and  a  few  of  his  servants,  whom  he  had  obliged  to  accom- 
pany him.  He  ascended  the  staircase  without  stopping,  till  he 
arrived  at  the  gallery,  at  the  door  of  which  he  met  Hippolita  and 
her  chaplain.  When  Diego  had  been  dismissed  by  Manfred,  he 
had  gone  directly  to  the  princess's  apartment,  with  the  alarm  of 
what  he  had  seen.  That  excellent  lady,  who  no  more  than  Man- 
fred doubted  of  the  reahty  of  the  vision,  yet  affected  to  treat  it  as 
a  delirium  of  the  servant.  Willing,  however,  to  save  her  lord 
from  any  additional  shock,  and  prepared,  by  a  series  of  grief, 
not  to  tremble  at  any  accession  to  it,  she  determined  to  make 
herself  the  first  sacrifice,  if  fate  had  marked  the  present  hour  for 
their  destruction.  Dismissing  the  reluctant  Matilda  to  her  rest, 
who  in  vain  sued  for  leave  to  accompany  her  mother,  and  at- 
tended only  by  her  chaplain,  Hippolita  had  visited  the  gallery 
and  great  chamber ;  and  now,  with  more  serenity  of  soul  than  she 
had  felt  for  many  hours,  she  met  her  lord,  and  assured  him  that 
the  vision  of  the  gigantic  leg  and  foot  was  all  a  fable ;  and  no 
doubt  an  impression  made  by  fear,  and  the  dark  and  dismal 
hour  of  the  night,  on  the  minds  of  his  servants.  She  and  the 
chaplain  had  examined  the  chamber,  and  found  everything  in 
the  usual  order. 

Manfred,  though  persuaded,  like  his  wife,  that  the  vision  had 
been  no  work  of  fancy,  recovered  a  little  from  the  tempest  of 
mind  into  which  so  many  strange  events  had  thrown  him. 
Ashamed,  too,  of  his  inhuman  treatment  of  a  princess,  who  re- 
turned every  injury  with  new  marks  of  tenderness  and  duty,  he 
felt  returning  love  forcing  itself  into  his  eyes ;  but,  not  less 
ashamed  of  feeling  remorse  towards  one  against  whom  he  was 
inwardly  meditating  a  yet  more  bitter  outrage,  he  curbed  the 
yearnings  of  his  heart,  and  did  not  dare  to  lean  even  towards 
pity.  The  next  transition  of  his  soul  was  to  exquisite  villany. 
Presuming  on  the  unshaken  submission  of  Hippolita,  he  flattered 
himself  that  she  would  not  only  acquiesce  with  patience  in  a 
divorce,  but  would  obey,  if  it  was  his  pleasure,  in  endeavouring  to 


504  HORACE   WALPOLE 

persuade  Isabella  to  give  him  her  hand ;  but  ere  he  could  indulge 
his  horrid  hope,  he  reflected  that  Isabella  was  not  to  be  found. 

Coming  to  himself,  he  gave  orders  that  every  avenue  to  the 
castle  should  be  strictly  guarded,  and  charged  his  domestics,  on 
pain  of  their  lives,  to  suffer  nobody  to  pass  out.  The  young 
peasant,  to  whom  he  spoke  favourably,  he  now  ordered  to  remain 
in  a  small  chamber  on  the  stairs,  in  which  there  was  a  pallet  bed, 
and  the  key  of  which  he  took  away  himself,  telling  the  youth  at 
the  same  time  that  he  would  talk  with  him  in  the  morning. 
Then,  dismissing  his  attendants,  and  bestowing  a  sullen  kind  of 
half-nod  on  Hippolita,  he  retired  to  his  own  chamber. 

CHAPTER   II 

Matilda,  who  by  Hippolita's  order  had  retired  to  her  apart- 
ment, was  ill-disposed  to  take  any  rest.  The  shocking  fate  of  her 
brother  had  deeply  affected  her.  She  was  surprised  at  not  seeing 
Isabella :  but  the  strange  words  which  had  fallen  from  her 
father,  and  his  obscure  menace  to  the  princess  his  wife,  accom- 
panied by  the  most  furious  behaviour,  had  filled  her  gentle  mind 
with  terror  and  alarm.  She  waited  anxiously  for  the  return  of 
Bianca,  a  young  damsel  that  attended  her,  whom  she  had  sent 
to  learn  what  had  become  of  Isabella.  Bianca  soon  appeared, 
and  informed  her  mistress  of  what  she  had  gathered  from  the 
servants,  that  Isabella  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  She  related 
the  adventure  of  the  young  peasant,  who  had  been  discovered  in 
the  vault,  though  with  many  simple  additions  from  the  incoherent 
accounts  of  the  domestics ;  and  she  dwelt  principally  on  the 
gigantic  leg  and  foot  which  had  been  seen  in  the  gallery-chamber. 
This  last  circumstance  had  terrified  Bianca  so  much,  that  she 
was  rejoiced  when  Matilda  told  her  that  she  would  not  go  to 
rest,  but  should  watch  till  the  princess  should  rise. 

The  young  princess  wearied  herself  in  the  conjectures  on  the 
flight  of  Isabella,  and  on  the  threats  of  Manfred  to  her  mother. 

"But  what  business  could  he  have  so  urgent  with  the  chap- 
lain?" said  Matilda.  "Does  he  intend  to  have  my  brother's 
body  interred  privately  in  the  chapel?" 

"Oh,  madam,"  said  Bianca,  "now  I  guess.  As  you  are  become 
his  heiress,  he  is  impatient  to  have  you  married  :   he  has  always 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  505 

been  raving  for  more  sons ;  I  warrant  he  is  now  impatient  for 
grandsons.  As  sure  as  I  live,  madam,  I  shall  see  you  a  bride  at 
last.  —  Good  madam,  you  won't  cast  off  your  faithful  Bianca : 
you  won't  put  Donno  Rosara  over  me,  now  you  are  a  great 
princess?" 

"My  poor  Bianca,"  said  Matilda,  "how  fast  your  thoughts 
ramble  !  I  a  great  princess  !  What  hast  thou  seen  in  Manfred's 
behaviour  since  my  brother's  death  that  bespeaks  any  increase 
of  tenderness  to  me  ?     No,  Bianca  ;  his  heart  was  ever  a  stranger 

to but  he  is  my  father,  and  I  must  not  complain.     Nay,  if 

Heaven  shuts  my  father's  heart  against  me,  it  overpays  my  little 

merit  in  the  tenderness  of  my  mother O  that  dear  mother  ! 

yes,  Bianca,  it  is  there  I  feel  the  rugged  temper  of  Manfred.  I 
can  support  his  harshness  to  me  with  patience ;  but  it  wounds 
my  soul  when  I  am  witness  to  his  causeless  severity  towards  her." 

"Oh!  madam,"  said  Bianca,  "all  men  use  their  wives  so, 
when  they  are  weary  of  them." 

"And  yet  you  congratulated  me  but  now,"  said  Matilda, 
"when  you  fancied  my  father  intended  to  dispose  of  me  !" 

"I  would  have  you  a  great  lady,"  replied  Bianca,  "come  what 
will.  I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  moped  in  a  convent,  as  you  would 
be  if  you  had  your  will,  and  if  my  lady,  your  mother,  who  knows 
that  a  bad  husband  is  better  than  no  husband  at  all,  did  not 
hinder  you.  —  Bless  me  !  what  noise  is  that  ?  St.  Nicholas, 
forgive  me  !     I  was  but  in  jest." 

"It  is  the  wind,"  said  Matilda,  "whistling  through  the  battle- 
ments of  the  tower  above  ;  you  have  heard  it  a'  thousand  times." 

"Nay,"  said  Bianca,  "there  was  no  harm,  neither,  in  what  I 
said :  it  is  no  sin  to  talk  of  matrimony  —  and  so,  madam,  as  I 
was  saying,  if  my  Lord  Manfred  should  offer  you  a  handsome 
young  prince  for  a  bridegroom,  you  would  drop  him  a  courtesy, 
and  tell  him  you  would  rather  take  the  veil  ?" 

"Thank  Heaven,  I  am  in  no  such  danger,"  said  Matilda; 
"you  know  how  many  proposals  for  me  he  has  rejected." 

"And  yet  you  thank  him,  like  a  dutiful  daughter,  do  you, 
madam  ?  —  But  come,  madam  ;  suppose,  to-morrow  morning, 
he  was  to  send  for  you  to  the  great  council-chamber,  and  there 
you  should  find,  at  his  elbow,  a  lovely  young  prince,  with  large 


5o6  HORACE   WALPOLE 

black  eyes,  smooth  white  forehead,  and  manly  curling  locks  like 
jet ;  in  short,  madam,  a  young  hero,  resembling  the  picture  of  the 
good  Alfonso  in  the  gallery,  which  you  sit  and  gaze  at  for  hours 
together." 

"Do  not  speak  lightly  of  that  picture,"  interrupted  Matilda, 
sighing  :  "  I  know  the  adoration  with  which  I  look  at  that  picture 
is  uncommon  —  but  I  am  not  in  love  with  a  coloured  panel. 
The  character  of  that  virtuous  prince,  —  the  veneration  with 
which  my  mother  has  inspired  me  for  his  memory,  —  the  orisons 
which,  I  know  not  why,  she  has  enjoined  me  to  pour  forth  at  his 
tomb,  —  all  have  concurred  to  persuade  me  that  somehow  or 
other  my  destiny  is  linked  with  something  relating  to  him." 

"Lord  !  madam,  how  should  that  be?"  said  Bianca:  "I  have 
always  heard  that  your  family  was  no  way  related  to  his ;  and  I 
am  sure  I  cannot  conceive  why  my  lady,  the  princess,  sends  you, 
in  a  cold  morning,  or  a  damp  evening,  to  pray  at  his  tomb.  He  is 
no  saint  by  the  almanac.  If  you  must  pray,  why  does  she  not 
bid  you  address  yourself  to  our  great  St.  Nicholas  ?  I  am  sure 
he  is  the  saint  I  pray  to  for  a  husband." 

"Perhaps  my  mind  would  be  less  affected,"  said  Matilda,  "if 
my  mother  would  explain  her  reasons  to  me  :  but  it  is  the  mystery 

she  observes  that  inspires  me  with  this I  know  not  what  to 

call  it.  As  she  never  acts  from  caprice,  I  am  sure  there  is  some 
fatal  secret  at  the  bottom  —  nay,  I  know  there  is  :  in  her  agony 
of  grief  for  my  brother's  death,  she  dropped  some  words  that 
intimated  as  much." 

"Oh  !   dear  madam,"  cried  Bianca,  "what  were  they?" 

"No,"  said  Matilda ;  "if  a  parent  lets  fall  a  word,  and  wishes 
it  recalled,  it  is  not  for  a  child  to  utter  it." 

"What !  was  she  sorry  for  what  she  had  said  ?"  asked  Bianca. 
"I  am  sure,  madam,  you  may  trust  me  ■ " 

"With  my  own  little  secrets,  when  I  have  any,  I  may,"  said 
Matilda ;  "but  never  with  my  mother's  :  a  child  ought  to  have 
no  ears  or  eyes,  but  as  a  parent  directs." 

"Well !  to  be  sure,  madam,  you  was  born  to  be  a  saint,"  said 
Bianca,  "and  there  is  no  resisting  one's  vocation:  you  will  end 
in  a  convent  at  last.  But  there  is  my  lady  Isabella  would  not 
be  so  reserved  to  me  :   she  will  let  me  talk  to  her  of  young  men  : 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  507 

and  when  a  handsome  cavaher  has  come  to  the  castle,  she  has 
owned  to  me  that  she  wished  your  brother  Conrad  resembled 
him." 

"Bianca,"  said  the  princess,  "I  do  not  allow  you  to  mention 
my  friend  disrespectfully.  Isabella  is  of  a  cheerful  disposition, 
but  her  soul  is  as  pure  as  virtue  itself.  She  knows  your  babbling 
humour,  and  perhaps  has  now  and  then  encouraged  it  to  divert 
melancholy,  and  enliven  the  solitude  in  which  my  father  keeps 
us." 

"Blessed  Mary!"  said  Bianca,  starting,  "there  it  is  again! 
Dear  madam,  do  you  hear  nothing  ?  this  castle  is  certainly 
haunted." 

"Peace  !"  said  Matilda,  "and  listen  !  I  did  think  I  heard  a 
voice  —  but  it  must  be  fancy ;  your  terrors,  I  suppose,  have 
infected  me." 

"Indeed!  indeed!  madam,"  said  Bianca,  half-weeping  with 
agony,  "I  am  sure  I  heard  a  voice." 

"Does  anybody  lie  in  the  chamber  beneath  ? "  said  the  Princess. 

"Nobody  has  dared  to  lie  there,"  answered  Bianca,  "since 
the  great  astrologer,  that  was  your  brother's  tutor,  drowned 
himself.  For  certain,  madam,  his  ghost  and  the  young  prince's 
are  now  met  in  the  chamber  below  —  for  heaven's  sake  let  us  fly 
to  your  mother's  apartment !" 

"I  charge  you  not  to  stir,"  said  Matilda.  "If  they  are  spirits 
in  pain,  we  may  ease  their  sufferings  by  questioning  them.  They 
can  mean  no  hurt  to  us,  for  we  have  not  injured  them  —  and  if 
they  should,  shall  we  be  more  safe  in  one  chamber  than  in  an- 
other ?  Reach  me  my  beads ;  we  will  say  a  prayer,  and  then 
speak  to  them." 

"Oh  !  dear  lady,  I  would  not  speak  to  a  ghost  for  the  world," 
cried  Bianca. 

As  she  said  these  words,  they  heard  the  casement  of  the  little 
chamber  below  Matilda's  open.  They  listened  attentively,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  thought  they  heard  a  person  sing,  but  could  not 
distinguish  the  words. 

"This  can  be  no  evil  spirit,"  said  the  princess,  in  a  low  voice : 
"it  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  family  —  open  the  window,  and 
we  shall  know  the  voice." 


5o8  HORACE   WALPOLE 

"I  dare  not,  indeed,  madam,"  said  Bianca. 

''Thou  art  a  very  fool,"  said  Matilda,  opening  the  window 
gently  herself. 

The  noise  the  princess  made  was,  however,  heard  by  the  person 
beneath,  who  stopped,  and  they  concluded  had  heard  the  case- 
ment open. 

"Is  any  body  below  ?"  said  the  princess :   "if  there  is,  speak." 

"Yes,"  said  an  unknown  voice, 

"Who  is  it?"  said  Matilda. 

"A  stranger,"  replied  the  voice. 

"What  stranger?"  said  she,  —  "and  how  didst  thou  come 
there,  at  this  unusual  hour,  when  all  the  gates  of  the  castle  are 
locked?" 

"I   am   not  here  willingly,"    answered   the   voice "but 

pardon  me,  lady,  if  I  have  disturbed  your  rest ;  I  knew  not  that 
I  was  overheard.  Sleep  had  forsaken  me.  I  left  a  restless  couch, 
and  came  to  waste  the  irksome  hours  with  gazing  on  the  fair 
approach  of  morning,  impatient  to  be  dismissed  from  this  castle." 

"Thy  words  and  accents,"  said  Matilda,  "are  of  a  melancholy 
cast :  if  thou  art  unhappy,  I  pity  thee.  If  poverty  afflicts  thee, 
let  me  know  it ;  I  will  mention  thee  to  the  princess,  whose  be- 
neficent soul  ever  melts  for  the  distressed :  and  she  will  relieve 
thee." 

"I  am  indeed  unhappy,"  said  the  stranger,  "and  I  know  not 
what  wealth  is  :  but  I  do  not  complain  of  the  lot  which  Heaven 
has  cast  for  me ;  I  am  young  and  healthy,  and  am  not  ashamed  of 
owing  my  support  to  myself  —  yet  think  me  not  proud,  or  that 
I  disdain  your  generous  offers.  I  will  remember  you  in  my 
orisons,  and  will  pray  for  blessings  on  your  gracious  self,  and  your 
noble  mistress  —  if  I  sigh,  lady,  it  is  for  others,  not  for  myself." 

"Now  I  have  it,  madam,"  said  Bianca,  whispering  the  princess. 
"This  is  certainly  the  young  peasant :  and  by  my  conscience  he 
is  in  love.  Well !  this  is  a  charming  adventure  !  —  do,  madam, 
let  us  sift  him.  He  does  not  know  you,  but  takes  you  for  one  of 
my  lady  Hippolita's  women." 

"Art  thou  not  ashamed,  Bianca?"  said  the  princess.  "What 
right  have  we  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of  this  young  man's  heart? 
he  seems  virtuous  and  frank,  and  tells  us  he  is  unhappy :    are 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  509 

those  circumstances  that  authorize  us  to  make  a  property  of 
him ;  how  are  we  entitled  to  his  confidence  !" 

"Lord  !  madam,  how  little  you  know  of  love  !"  replied  Bianca  : 
''why,  lovers  have  no  pleasure  equal  to  talking  of  their  mistress." 

"And  would  you  have  me  become  a  peasant's  confidant?" 
said  the  princess. 

"Well,  then,  let  me  talk  to  him,"  said  Bianca  :  "  though  I  have 
the  honour  of  being  your  highness's  maid  of  honour,  I  was  not 
always  so  great :  besides,  if  love  levels  ranks,  it  raises  them  too. 
I  have  a  respect  for  any  young  man  in  love." 

"Peace!  simpleton,"  said  the  princess;  "though  he  said  he 
was  unhappy,  it  does  not  follow  that  he  must  be  in  love.  Think 
of  all  that  has  happened  to-day,  and  tell  me  if  there  are  no  mis- 
fortunes but  what  love  causes.  Stranger,"  resumed  the  princess, 
"if  thy  misfortunes  have  not  been  occasioned  by  thy  own  fault, 
and  are  within  the  compass  of  the  Princess  Hippolita's  power  to 
redress,  I  will  take  upon  me  to  answer  that  she  will  be  thy  pro- 
tectress. When  thou  art  dismissed  from  this  castle,  repair  to 
holy  father  Jerome,  at  the  convent  adjoining  to  the  church  of 
St.  Nicholas,  and  make  thy  story  known  to  him,  as  far  as  thou 
thinkest  meet :  he  will  not  fail  to  inform  the  princess,  who  is  the 
mother  of  all  that  want  her  assistance.  Farewell !  it  is  not 
seemly  for  me  to  hold  farther  converse  with  a  man  at  this 
unwonted  hour." 

"May  the  saints  guard  thee,  gracious  lady!"  replied  the 
peasant;  "but  oh!  if  a  poor  and  worthless  stranger  might 
presume  to  beg  a  minute's  audience  farther  —  am  I  so  happy  ? 
—  the  casement  is  not  shut  —  might  I  venture  to  ask."  — 

"Speak  quickly,"  said  Matilda;  "the  morning  draws  apace: 
should  the  labourers  come  into  the  fields  and  perceive  us  — 
What  wouldst  thou  ask  ?" 

"I  know  not  how,  I  know  not  if  I  dare — "  said  the  young 

stranger,  faltering "yet  the  humanity  with  which  you  have 

spoken  to  me  emboldens  —  Lady  !  dare  I  trust  you  ?" 

"Heavens  !"  said  Matilda,  "what  dost  thou  mean  ;  with  what 
wouldst  thou  trust  me  ?  — •  speak  boldly,  if  thy  secret  is  fit  to  be 
intrusted  to  a  virtuous  breast." 

"I  would  ask,"  said  the  peasant,  recollecting  himself,  "whether 


5IO 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


what  I  have  heard  from  the  domestics  is  true,  that  the  princess  is 
missing  from  the  castle?" 

"What  imports  it  to  thee  to  know  ?"  replied  Matilda.  "Thy 
first  words  bespoke  a  prudent  and  becoming  gravity.  Dost 
thou  come  hither  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of  Manfred  ?  Adieu  ! 
I  have  been  mistaken  in  thee." 

Saying  these  words,  she  shut  the  casement  hastily,  without 
giving  the  young  man  time  to  reply. 

"I  had  acted  more  wisely,"  said  the  princess  to  Bianca,  with 
some  sharpness,  "if  I  had  let  thee  converse  with  this  peasant; 
his  inquisitiveness  seems  of  a  piece  with  thy  own." 

"It  is  not  fit  for  me  to  argue  with  your  highness,"  replied 
Bianca,  "but  perhaps  the  questions  I  should  have  put  to  him 
would  have  been  more  to  the  purpose  than  those  you  have  been 
pleased  to  ask  him  !" 

"Oh  !  no  doubt,"  said  Matilda,  "you  are  a  very  discreet  per- 
sonage !  may  I  know  what  you  would  have  asked  him  ?" 

"A  bystander  often  sees  more  of  the  game  than  those  that 
play,"  answered  Bianca.  "Does  your  highness  think,  madam, 
that  his  question  about  my  Lady  Isabella  was  the  result  of  mere 
curiosity  ?  No,  no,  madam ;  there  is  more  in  it  than  you  great 
folks  are  aware  of.  Lopez  told  me  that  all  the  servants  believe 
this  young  fellow  contrived  my  Lady  Isabella's  escape.  Now, 
pray,  madam,  observe  —  you  and  I  both  know  that  my  Lady 
Isabella  never  much  fancied  the  prince  your  brother  —  Well !  he 
is  killed  just  in  the  critical  minute  —  I  accuse  nobody.  A  helmet 
falls  from  the  moon  —  so  my  lord,  your  father  says  ;  but  Lopez 
and  all  the  servants  say  that  this  young  spark  is  a  magician,  and 
stole  it  from  Alfonso's  tomb  — " 

"Have  done  with  this  rhapsody  of  impertinence  !"  said  Matilda. 

"Nay,  madam,  as  you  please,"  cried  Bianca;  "yet  it  is  very 
particular,  though,  that  my  Lady  Isabella  should  be  missing  the 
very  same  day,  and  that  this  young  sorcerer  should  be  found  at 
the  mouth  of  the  trap-door  —  I  accuse  nobody  —  but  if  my 
young  lord  came  honestly  by  his  death  — " 

"Dare  not,  on  thy  duty,"  said  Matilda,  "  to  breathe  a  suspicion 
on  the  purity  of  my  dear  Isabella's  fame." 

"Purity,  or  not  purity,"  said  Bianca,  "gone  she  is  —  a  stranger 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  511 

is  found  that  nobody  knows  :  you  question  him,  yourself ;  he  tells 
you  he  is  in  love,  or  unhappy,  it  is  the  same  thing  ;  nay,  he  owned 
he  was  unhappy,  about  others ;  and  is  anybody  unhappy  about 
another,  unless  they  are  in  love  with  them  ?  —  and  at  the  very 
next  word  he  asks,  innocently,  poor  soul  !  if  my  Lady  Isabella  is 
missing." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Matilda,  "thy  observations  are  not  totally 
without  foundation  —  Isabella's  flight  amazes  me  :  the  curiosity 
of  this  stranger  is  very  particular  —  yet  Isabella  never  concealed 
a  thought  from  me." 

"So  she  told  you,"  said  Bianca,  "to  fish  out  your  secrets  — 
but  who  knows,  madam,  but  this  stranger  may  be  some  prince  in 
disguise  ?  do,  madam,  let  me  open  the  window,  and  ask  him  a 
few  questions." 

"No,"  replied  Matilda,  "I  will  ask  him  myself,  if  he  knows 
aught  of  Isabella :  he  is  not  worthy  that  I  should  converse 
farther  with  him." 

She  was  going  to  open  the  casement,  when  they  heard  the 
bell  ring  at  the  postern  gate  of  the  castle,  which  was  on  the  right 
hand  of  the  tower  where  Matilda  lay.  This  prevented  the  prin- 
cess from  renewing  the  conversation  with  the  stranger. 

After  continuing  silent  for  some  time,  "I  am  persuaded,"  said 
she  to  Bianca,  "  that  whatever  be  the  cause  of  Isabella's  flight,  it 
had  no  unworthy  motive.  If  this  stranger  was  accessory  to  it, 
she  must  be  satisfied  of  his  fidelity  and  worth.  I  observed,  did 
not  you,  Bianca  ?  that  his  words  were  tinctured  with  an  uncom- 
mon infusion  of  piety.  It  was  no  ruffian's  speech  :  his  phrases 
were  becoming  a  man  of  gentle  birth." 

"I  told  you,  madam,"  said  Bianca,  "that  I  was  sure  he  was 
some  prince  in  disguise." 

"Yet,"  said  Matilda,  "if  he  was  privy  to  her  escape,  how  will 
you  account  for  his  not  accompanying  her  in  her  flight  ?  —  why 
expose  himself,  unnecessarily  and  rashly,  to  my  father's  resent- 
ment?" 

"As  for  that,  madam,"  replied  she,  "if  he  could  get  from  under 
the  helmet,  he  will  find  ways  of  eluding  your  father's  anger.  I 
do  not  doubt  but  he  has  some  talisman  or  other  about  him." 

"You  resolve  everything  into  magic,"  said  Matilda;    "but  a 


512 


HORACE   WALPOLE 


man  who  has  any  intercourse  with  infernal  spirits  does  not  dare 
to  make  use  of  those  tremendous  and  holy  words  which  he  uttered. 
Didst  thou  not  observe  with  what  fervour  he  vowed  to  remember 
me  to  Heaven  in  his  prayers  ?  —  yes ;  Isabella  was  undoubtedly 
convinced  of  his  piety." 

"Commend  me  to  the  piety  of  a  young  fellow  and  a  damsel 
that  consult  to  elope!"  said  Bianca.  "No,  no,  madam:  my 
Lady  Isabella  is  of  another  guess  mould  than  that  you  take  her 
for.  She  used  indeed  to  sigh  and  lift  up  her  eyes  in  your  company, 
because  she  knows  you  are  a  saint  —  but  when  your  back  was 
turned " 

"You  wrong  her,"  said  Matilda;  "Isabella  is  no  hypocrite: 
she  has  a  due  sense  of  devotion,  but  never  affected  a  call  she  has 
not.  On  the  contrary,  she  always  combated  my  inclination  for 
the  cloister ;  and  though  I  own  the  mystery  she  has  made  to  me 
of  her  flight  confounds  me,  though  it  seems  inconsistent  with  the 
friendship  between  us,  I  cannot  forget  the  disinterested  warmth 
with  which  she  always  opposed  my  taking  the  veil :  she  wishes 
to  see  me  married,  though  my  dower  would  have  been  a  loss  to 
her  and  my  brother's  children.  For  her  sake,  I  will  believe  well 
of  this  young  peasant." 

"Then  you  do  think  there  is  some  liking  between  them," 
said  Bianca. 

While  she  was  speaking,  a  servant  came  hastily  into  the  cham- 
ber, and  told  the  princess  that  the  Lady  Isabella  was  found. 

"Where?"  said  Matilda. 

"She  has  taken  sanctuary  in  St.  Nicholas's  church,"  replied 
the  servant:  "father  Jerome  has  brought  the  news  himself: 
he  is  below  with  his  highness." 

"Where  is  my  mother?"  said  Matilda. 

"She  is  in  her  own  chamber,  madam,  and  has  asked  for  you." 

Manfred  had  risen  at  the  first  dawn  of  light,  and  gone  to 
Hippolita's  apartment,  to  inquire  if  she  knew  aught  of  Isabella. 
While  he  was  questioning  her,  word  was  brought  that  Jerome 
demanded  to  speak  with  him.  Manfred,  Httle  suspecting  the 
cause  of  the  friar's  arrival,  and  knowing  he  was  employed  by 
Hippolita  in  her  charities,  ordered  him  to  be  admitted,  intending 
to  leave  them  together,  while  he  pursued  his  search  after  Isabella. 


THE   CASTLE   OF  OTRANTO  513 

"Is  your  business  with  me  or  the  princess?"  said  Manfred. 

"With  both,"  replied  the  holy  man.    "  The  Lady  Isabella " 

"What  of  her?"  interrupted  Manfred,  eagerly  — 

"Is  at  St.  Nicholas's  altar,"  replied  Jerome. 

"That  is  no  business  of  Hippolita,"  said  Manfred,  with  con- 
fusion. "Let  us  retire  to  my  chamber,  father;  and  inform  me 
how  she  came  thither." 

"No,  my  lord,"  replied  the  good  man,  with  an  air  of  firmness 
and  authority  that  daunted  even  the  resolute  Manfred,  who 
could  not  help  revering  the  saint-like  virtues  of  Jerome:  "my 
commission  is  to  both  :  and,  with  your  highness's  good  liking,  in 
the  presence  of  both  I  shall  deliver  it  —  but  first,  my  lord,  I 
must  interrogate  the  princess,  whether  she  is  acquainted  with  the 
cause  of  the  Lady  Isabella's  retirement  from  your  castle  !" 

"No,  on  my  soul,"  said  Hippolita;  "does  Isabella  charge  me 
with  being  privy  to  it  ?" 

'  "Father,"  interrupted  Manfred,  "I  pay  due  reverence  to  your 
holy  profession ;  but  I  am  sovereign  here,  and  will  allow  no 
meddling  priests  to  interfere  in  the  affairs  of  my  domestic.  If 
you  have  aught  to  say,  attend  me  to  my  chamber  —  I  do  not  use 
to  let  my  wife  be  acquainted  with  the  secret  affairs  of  my  state : 
they  are  not  within  a  woman's  province." 

"My  lord,"  said  the  holy  man,  "I  am  no  intruder  into  the 
secrets  of  families.  My  office  is  to  promote  peace,  to  heal  divi- 
sions, to  preach  repentance,  and  teach  mankind  to  curb  their 
headstrong  passions.  I  forgive  your  highness's  uncharitable 
apostrophe  :  I  know  my  duty,  and  am  the  minister  of  a  mightier 
prince  than  Manfred.  Hearken  to  him  who  speaks  through  my 
organs." 

Manfred  trembled  with  rage  and  shame.  Hippolita's  coun- 
tenance declared  her  astonishment  and  impatience  to  know 
where  this  would  end ;  her  silence  more  strongly  spoke  her  ob- 
servance of  Manfred. 

"The  Lady  Isabella,"  resumed  Jerome,  "commends  herself  to 
both  your  highnesses ;  she  thanks  both  for  the  kindness  with 
which  she  has  been  treated  in  your  castle  :  she  deplores  the  loss  of 
your  son,  and  her  own  misfortunes  in  not  becoming  the  daughter 
of  such  wise  and  noble  princes,  whom  she  shall  always  respect  as 


514 


HORACE   WALPOLE 


parents ;  she  prays  for  uninterrupted,  union  and  felicity  between 
you  (Manfred's  colour  changed)  :  but  as  it  is  no  longer  possible 
for  her  to  be  allied  to  you,  she  entreats  your  consent  to  remain  in 
sanctuary,  till  she  can  learn  news  of  her  father,  or,  by  the  certainty 
of  his  death,  be  at  Hberty,  with  the  approbation  of  her  guardians, 
to  dispose  of  herself  in  suitable  marriage." 

"I  shall  give  no  such  consent,"  said  the  prince,  "but  insist  on 
her  return  to  the  castle  without  delay :  I  am  answerable  for  her 
person  to  her  guardians,  and  will  not  brook  her  being  in  any 
hands  but  my  own." 

"Your  highness  will  recollect  whether  that  can  any  longer  be 
proper,"  replied  the  friar. 

"I  want  no  monitor,"  cried  Manfred,  colouring;  "Isabella's 
conduct  leaves  room  for  strange  suspicions  — •  and  that  young 
villain,  who  was  at  least  the  accomplice  of  her  flight,  if  not  the 
cause  of  it " 

"The  cause!"  interrupted  Jerome,  "was  a  young  man  the» 
cause  ?" 

"This  is  not  to  be  borne  !"  cried  Manfred.  "Am  I  to  be 
bearded  in  my  own  palace  by  an  insolent  monk  ?  Thou  art 
privy,  I  guess,  to  their  amours." 

"I  would  pray  to  Heaven  to  clear  up  your  uncharitable  sur- 
mises," said  Jerome,  "if  your  highness  were  not  satisfied  in  your 
conscience  how  unjustly  you  accuse  me.  I  do  pray  to  Heaven 
to  pardon  that  uncharitableness :  and  I  implore  your  highness 
to  leave  the  princess  at  peace  in  that  holy  place,  where  she  is  not 
likely  to  be  disturbed  by  such  vain  and  worldly  phantasies  as 
discourses  of  love  from  any  man." 

"  Cant  not  to  me,"  said  Manfred,  "  but  return,  and  bring 
the  princess  to  her  duty." 

"It  is  my  duty  to  prevent  her  return  hither,"  said  Jerome. 
"She  is  where  orphans  and  virgins  are  safest  from  the  snares  and 
wiles  of  this  world ;  and  nothing  but  a  parent's  authority  shall 
take  her  thence." 

"I  am  her  parent,"  cried  Manfred,  "and  demand  her." 

"She  wished  to  have  you  for  a  parent,"  said  the  friar:  "but 
Heaven,  that  forbad  that  connexion,  has  for  ever  dissolved  all 
ties  betwixt  you  :   and  I  announce  to  your  highness " 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  515 

"Stop!  audacious  man/'  said  Manfred,  "and  dread  my 
displeasure." 

"Holy  father,"  said  Hippolita,  "it  is  your  office  to  be  no 
respecter  of  persons :  you  must  speak  as  your  duty  prescribes. 
But  it  is  my  duty  to  hear  nothing  that  it  pleases  not  my  lord  I 
should  hear.  Attend  the  prince  to  his  chamber.  I  will  retire 
to  my  oratory,  and  pray  to  the  blessed  virgin  to  inspire  you  with 
her  holy  counsels,  and  to  restore  the  heart  of  my  gracious  lord 
to  its  wonted  peace  and  gentleness." 

"Excellent  woman  !"  said  the  friar  —  "My  lord,  I  attend  your 
pleasure." 

Manfred,  accompanied  by  the  friar,  passed  to  his  own  apart- 
ment, where,  shutting  the  door,  "I  perceive,  father,"  said  he, 
"that  Isabella  has  acquainted  you  with  my  purpose.  Now  hear 
my  resolve,  and  obey.  Reasons  of  state,  most  urgent  reasons, 
my  own  and  the  safety  of  my  people,  demand  that  I  should  have 
a  son.  It  is  in  vain  to  expect  an  heir  from  Hippolita.  I  have 
made  choice  of  Isabella.  You  must  bring  her  back :  and  you 
must  do  more.  I  know  the  influence  you  have  with  Hippolita : 
her  conscience  is  in  your  hands.  She  is,  I  allow,  a  faultless 
woman  :  her  soul  is  set  on  heaven,  and  scorns  the  little  grandeur 
of  this  world :  you  can  withdraw  her  from  it  entirely.  Per- 
suade her  to  consent  to  the  dissolution  of  our  marriage,  and  to 
retire  into  a  monastery :  she  shall  endow  one  if  she  will ;  and 
she  shall  have  the  means  of  being  as  liberal  to  your  order,  as  she 
or  you  can  wish.  Thus  you  will  divert  the  calamities  that  are 
hanging  over  our  heads,  and  have  the  merit  of  saving  the  prin- 
cipality of  Otranto  from  destruction.  You  are  a  prudent  man, 
and  though  the  warmth  of  my  temper  betrayed  me  into  some 
unbecoming  expressions,  I  honour  your  virtue,  and  wish  to  be 
indebted  to  you  for  the  repose  of  my  life  and  the  preservation  of 
my  family." 

"The  will  of  Heaven  be  done  !"  said  the  friar;  "I  am  but  its 
worthless  instrument.  It  makes  use  of  my  tongue  to  tell  thee, 
prince,  of  thy  unwarrantable  designs.  The  injuries  of  the  vir- 
tuous HIppohta  have  mounted  to  the  throne  of  pity.  By  me 
thou  art  reprimanded  for  thy  adulterous  intention  of  repudiating 
her :  by  me  thou  art  warned  not  to  pursue  an  incestuous  design 


5i6  HORACE  WALPOLE 

on  thy  contracted  daughter.  Heaven,  that  delivered  her  from 
thy  fury,  when  the  judgments  so  recently  fallen  on  thy  house 
ought  to  have  inspired  thee  with  other  thoughts,  will  continue 
to  watch  over  her.  Even  I,  a  poor  and  despised  friar,  am  able 
to  protect  her  from  thy  violence,  —  I,  sinner  as  I  am,  and  un- 
charitably reviled  by  your  highness  as  an  accomplice  of  I  know 
not  what  amours,  scorn  the  allurements  with  which  it  has  pleased 
thee  to  tempt  mine  honesty.  I  love  my  order ;  I  honour  devout 
souls  :  I  respect  the  piety  of  thy  princess  —  but  I  will  not  betray 
the  confidence  she  reposes  in  me,  nor  serve  even  the  cause  of 
religion  by  foul  and  sinful  compliances.  But,  forsooth  !  the 
welfare  of  the  state  depends  upon  your  highness  having  a  son  ! 
Heaven  mocks  the  short-sighted  views  of  man.  But  yester-morn, 
whose  house  was  so  great,  so  flourishing  as  Manfred's  ?  —  where 
is  young  Conrad  now  ?  My  lord,  I  respect  your  tears  — ■  but  I 
mean  not  to  check  them  —  let  them  flow,  prince  !  they  will 
weigh  more  with  Heaven,  towards  the  welfare  of  thy  subjects, 
than  a  marriage  which,  founded  on  lust  or  policy,  could  never 
prosper.  The  sceptre,  which  passed  from  the  race  of  Alfonso  to 
thine,  cannot  be  preserved  by  a  match  which  the  church  will 
never  allow.  If  it  is  the  will  of  the  most  High  that  Manfred's 
name  must  perish ;  resign  yourself,  my  lord,  to  its  decrees,  and 
thus  deserve  a  crown  that  can  never  pass  away.  Come,  my  lord ; 
I  Uke  this  sorrow  —  let  us  return  to  the  princess :  she  is  not 
apprised  of  your  cruel  intentions  :  nor  did  I  mean  more  than  to 
alarm  you.  You  saw  with  what  gentle  patience,  with  what 
efforts  of  love,  she  heard  —  she  rejected  hearing  the  extent  of  your 
guilt.  I  know  she  longs  to  fold  you  in  her  arms  and  assure  you  of 
her  unalterable  affection." 

"Father,"  said  the  prince,  "you  mistake  my  compunction: 
true,  I  honour  Hippolita's  virtues  ;  I  think  her  a  saint ;  and  wish 
it  were  for  my  soul's  health,  to  tie  faster  the  knot  that  has  united 
us ;  but,  alas  !  father,  you  know  not  the  bitterest  pangs  !  It  is 
some  time  that  I  have  had  scruples  on  the  legality  of  our  union ; 
Hippolita  is  related  to  me  in  the  fourth  degree.  —  It  is  true,  we 
had  a  dispensation  :  but  I  have  been  informed  that  she  had  also 
been  contracted  to  another.  This  it  is  that  sits  heavy  at  my 
heart :   to  this  state  of  unlawful  wedlock,  I  impute  the  visitation 


THE   CASTLE  OF  OTRANTO  517 

that  has  fallen  on  me  in  the  death  of  Conrad  !  Ease  my  con- 
science of  this  burthen :  dissolve  our  marriage,  and  accomplish 
the  work  of  godliness,  which  your  divine  exhortations  have 
commenced   in  my   soul." 

How  cutting  was  the  anguish  which  the  good  man  felt  when  he 
perceived  this  turn  in  the  wily  prince  !  He  trembled  for  Hip- 
pohta,  whose  ruin  he  saw  was  determined  :  and  he  feared,  if 
Manfred  had  no  hope  of  recovering  Isabella,  that  his  impatience 
for  a  son  would  direct  him  to  some  other  object,  who  might  not 
be  equally  proof  against  the  temptation  of  Manfred's  rank. 
For  some  time  the  holy  man  remained  absorbed  in  thought.  At 
length,  conceiving  some  hopes  from  delay,  he  thought  the  wisest 
conduct  would  be  to  prevent  the  prince  from  despairing  of  re- 
covering Isabella.  Her,  the  friar  knew  he  could  dispose,  from  her 
affection  to  Hippolita,  and  from  the  aversion  she  had  expressed 
to  him  for  Manfred's  addresses,  to  second  his  views,  till  the  cen- 
sures of  the  church  could  be  fulminated  against  a  divorce. 

With  this  intention,  as  if  struck  with  the  prince's  scruples,  he 
at  length  said,  "My  lord,  I  have  been  pondering  on  what  your 
highness  has  said  ;  and  if  in  truth  it  is  delicacy  of  conscience  that 
is  the  real  motive  of  your  repugnance  to  your  virtuous  lady,  far 
be  it  from  me  to  endeavour  to  harden  your  heart.  The  church  is 
an  indulgent  mother :  unfold  your  griefs  to  her :  she  alone  can 
administer  comfort  to  your  soul,  either  by  satisfying  your  con- 
science, or,  upon  examination  of  your  scruples,  by  setting  you  at 
liberty,  and  indulging  you  in  the  lawful  means  of  continuing  your 
lineage.  In  the  latter  case,  if  the  Lady  Isabella  can  be  brought 
to  consent ■" 

Manfred,  who  concluded  that  he  had  either  overreached 
the  good  man,  or  that  his  first  warmth  had  been  but  a  tribute 
paid  to  appearance,  was  overjoyed  at  his  sudden  turn,  and 
repeated  the  most  magnificent  promises,  if  he  should  succeed 
by  the  friar'.s  mediation.  The  well-meaning  priest  suffered 
him  to  deceive  himself,  fully  determined  to  traverse  his  views, 
instead  of  seconding  them. 

"Since  we  now  understand  one  another,"  resumed  the  prince, 
"I  expect,  father,  that  you  satisfy  me  in  one  point.  Who 
is  the  youth  that  I  found  in  the  vault?     He  must  have  been 


5i8  HORACE  WALPOLE 

privy  to  Isabella's  flight :  tell  me  truly :  is  he  her  lover  ?  or  is 
he  an  agent  for  another's  passion  ?  I  have  often  suspected 
Isabella's  indifference  to  my  son:  a  thousand  circumstances 
crowd  on  my  mind,  that  confirm  that  suspicion.  She  herself 
was  so  conscious  of  it,  that,  while  I  discoursed  with  her  in  the 
gallery,  she  outran  my  suspicions,  and  endeavoured  to  justify 
herself  from  coolness  to  Conrad." 

The  friar,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  youth,  but  what  he  had 
learned  occasionally  from  the  princess,  ignorant  what  was 
become  of  him,  and  not  sufficiently  reflecting  on  the  impetuosity 
of  Manfred's  temper,  conceived  that  it  might  not  be  amiss  to 
sow  the  seeds  of  jealousy  in  his  mind;  they  might  be  turned 
to  some  use  hereafter,  either  by  prejudicing  the  prince  against 
Isabella,  if  he  persisted  in  that  union  ;  or,  by  diverting  his  atten- 
tion to  a  wrong  scent,  and  employing  his  thoughts  on  a  vision- 
ary intrigue,  prevent  his  engaging  in  any  new  pursuit.  With 
this  unhappy  poHcy  he  answered  in  a  manner  to  confirm  Man- 
fred in  the  belief  of  some  connexion  between  Isabella  and  the 
youth. 

The  prince,  whose  passions  wanted  little  fuel  to  throw  them 
into  a  blaze,  fell  into  a  rage  at  the  idea  of  what  the  friar  sug- 
gested. "I  will  fathom  to  the  bottom  of  this  intrigue,"  cried 
he,  and  quitting  Jerome  abruptly,  with  a  command  to  remain 
there  till  his  return,  he  hastened  to  the  great  hall  of  the  castle, 
and  ordered  the  peasant  to  be  brought  before  him. 

"Thou  hardened  young  impostor,"  said  the  prince,  as  soon 
as  he  saw  the  youth;  "what  becomes  of  thy  boasted  veracity 
now  ?  It  was  Providence,  was  it,  and  the  fight  of  the  moon, 
that  discovered  the  lock  of  the  trap-door  to  thee?  Tell  me, 
audacious  boy,  who  thou  art,  and  how  long  thou  hast  been 
acquainted  with  the  princess  —  and  take  care  to  answer  with 
less  equivocation  than  thou  didst  last  night,  or  tortures  shall 
wring  the  truth  from  thee." 

The  young  man,  perceiving  that  his  share  in  the  flight  of  the 
princess  was  discovered,  and  concluding  that  anything  he  should 
say  could  no  longer  be  of  service  or  detriment  to  her,  replied, 
"I  am  no  impostor,  my  lord,  nor  have  I  deserved  opprobrious 
language.     I  answered  to  every  question  your  highness  put  to 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  519 

me  last  night,  with  the  same  veracity  that  I  shall  speak  now  : 
and  that  will  not  be  from  fear  of  your  tortures,  but  because  my 
soul  abhors  a  falsehood.  Please  to  repeat  your  questions,  my 
lord ;   I  am  ready  to  give  you  all  the  satisfaction  in  my  power." 

"You  know  my  questions,"  replied  the  prince,  "and  only 
want  time  to  prepare  an  evasion.  Speak  directly :  who  art 
thou  ?    and  how  long  hast  thou  been  known  to  the  princess  ?" 

"I  am  a  labourer  at  the  next  village,"  said  the  peasant; 
"my  name  is  Theodore.  The  princess  found  me  in  the  vault 
last  night :  before  that  hour  I  never  was  in  her  presence." 

"I  may  believe  as  much  or  as  httle  as  I  please  of  this,"  said 
Manfred ;  "but  I  will  hear  thy  own  story,  before  I  examine  into 
the  truth  of  it.  Tell  me,  what  reason  did  the  princess  give  thee 
for  making  her  escape?    thy  hfe  depends  on  thy  answer." 

"She  told  me,"  replied  Theodore,  "that  she  was  on  the  brink 
of  destruction,  and  that,  if  she  could  not  escape  from  the  castle, 
she  was  in  danger,  in  a  few  moments,  of  being  made  miserable 
for  ever." 

"And  on  this  slight  foundation,  on  a  silly  girl's  report,"  said 
Manfred,  "thou  didst  hazard  my  displeasure?" 

"I  fear  no  man's  displeasure,"  sard  Theodore,  "when  a  woman 
in  distress  puts  herself  under  my  protection." 

During  this  examination,  Matilda  was  going  to  the  apartment 
of  HippoHta.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  hall,  where  Manfred  sat 
was  a  boarded  gallery,  with  latticed  windows,  through  which 
Matilda  and  Bianca  were  to  pass.  Hearing  her  father's  voice, 
and  seeing  the  servants  assembled  around  him,  she  stopped  to 
learn  the  occasion.  The  prisoner  soon  drew  her  attention : 
the  steady  and  composed  manner  in  which  he  answered,  and  the 
gallantry  of  his  last  reply,  which  were  the  first  words  she  heard 
distinctly,  interested  her  in  his  favour.  His  person  was  noble, 
handsome,  and  commanding,  even  in  that  situation  :  but  his 
countenance  soon  engrossed  her  whole  care. 

"Heavens  !  Bianca,"  said  the  princess,  softly,  "do  I  dream? 
or  is  not  that  youth  the  exact  rememblance  of  Alfonso's  picture 
in  the  gallery?"  She  could  say  no  more,  for  her  father's  voice 
grew  louder  at  every  word. 

"This  bravado,"  said  he,  "surpasses  all  thy  former  insolence. 


520  HORACE   WALPOLE 

Thou  shalt  experience  the  wrath  with  which  thou  darest  to  trifle. 
Seize  him,"  continued  Manfred,  "and  bind  him  —  the  first  news 
the  princess  hears  of  her  champion  shall  be  that  he  has  lost  his 
head  for  her  sake  I" 

"The  injustice  of  which  thou  art  guilty  towards  me,"  said 
Theodore,  "convinces  me  that  I  have  done  a  good  deed  in  deHver- 
ing  the  princess  from  thy  tyranny.  May  she  be  happy,  what- 
ever becomes  of  me!" 

"This  is  a  lover!"  cried  Manfred,  in  a  rage;  "a  peasant 
within  sight  of  death  is  not  animated  by  such  sentiments. 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  rash  boy,  who  thou  art,  or  the  rack  shall  force 
the  secret  from  thee." 

"Thou  hast  threatened  me  with  death  already,"  said  the 
youth,  "for  the  truth  I  have  told  thee:  if  that  is  all  the  en- 
couragement I  am  to  expect  for  sincerity,  I  am  not  tempted 
to  indulge  thy  vain  curiosity  farther." 

"Then  thou  wilt  not  speak?"  said  Manfred. 

"I  will  not,"  replied  he. 

"Bear  him  away  into  the  court  yard,"  said  Manfred ;  "I  will 
see  his  head  this  instant  severed  from  his  body." 

Matilda  fainted  at  hearing  those  words.  Bianca  shrieked, 
and  cried,  "Help  !    help  !    the  princess  is  dead  !" 

Manfred  started  at  this  ejaculation,  and  demanded  what  was 
the  matter  !  — •  the  young  peasant,  who  heard  it  too,  was  struck 
with  horror,  and  asked  eagerly  the  same  question ;  but  Manfred 
ordered  him  to  be  hurried  into  the  court,  and  kept  there  for 
execution,  till  he  had  informed  himself  of  Bianca's  shrieks.  When 
he  learned  the  meaning,  he  treated  it  as  a  womanish  panic, 
and  ordering  Matilda  to  be  carried  to  her  apartment,  he  rushed 
into  the  court,  and  calling  for  one  of  his  guards,  bade  Theodore 
kneel  down  and  prepare  to  receive  the  fatal  blow. 

The  undaunted  youth  received  the  bitter  sentence  with  a 
resignation  that  touched  every  heart  but  Manfred's.  He 
wished  earnestly  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  words  he  had 
heard  relating  to  the  princess ;  but  fearing  to  exasperate  the 
tyrant  more  against  her,  he  desisted.  The  only  boon  he  deigned 
to  ask,  was,  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  have  a  confessor, 
and  make  his  peace  with  Heaven. 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  521 

Manfred,  who  hoped,  by  the  confessor's  means,  to  come 
at  the  youth's  history,  readily  granted  his  request ;  and  being 
convinced  that  father  Jerome  was  now  in  his  interest,  he  ordered 
^  him  to  be  called,  to  shrieve  the  prisoner.  The  holy  man,  who 
had  Uttle  foreseen  the  catastrophe  that  his  imprudence  occa- 
sioned, fell  on  his  knees  to  the  prince,  and  abjured  him,  in  the 
most  solemn  manner,  not  to  shed  innocent  blood.  He  accused 
himself  in  the  bitterest  terms  for  his  indiscretion,  endeavoured 
to  exculpate  the  youth,  and  left  no  method  untried  to  soften  the 
tyrant's  rage.  Manfred,  more  incensed  than  appeased  by 
Jerome's  intercession,  whose  retraction  now  made  him  suspect 
he  had  been  imposed  upon  by  both,  commanded  the  friar  to  do 
his  duty,  telUng  him  he  would  not  allow  the  prisoner  many 
minutes  for  confession. 

"Nor  do  I  ask  many,  my  lord,"  said  the  unhappy  young 
man;  "my  sins,  thank  heaven,  have  not  been  numerous;  nor 
exceed  what  might  be  expected  at  my  years.  Dry  your  tears, 
good  father,  and  let  us  dispatch :  this  is  a  bad  world,  nor  have 
I  cause  to  leave  it  with  regret." 

"Oh!  wretched  youth!"  said  Jerome;  "how  canst  thou 
bear  the  sight  of  me  with  patience  ?  I  am  thy  murderer  !  —  it 
is  I  have  brought  this  dismal  hour  upon  thee  !" 

"I  forgive  thee  from  my  soul,"  said  the  youth,  "as  I  hope 
Heaven  will  pardon  me.  Hear  my  confession,  father,  and  give 
me  thy  blessing." 

"How  can  I  prepare  thee  for  thy  passage  as  I  ought,"  said 
Jerome.  "Thou  canst  not  be  saved  without  pardoning  thy 
foes  —  and  canst  thou  forgive  that  impious  man  there  ? " 

"I  can,"  said  Theodore;    "I  do." 

"And  does  not  this  touch  thee  !  cruel  prince  ?"  said  the  friar. 

"I  sent  for  thee  to  confess  him,"  said  Manfred,  sternly,  "not 
to  plead  for  him.  Thou  didst  first  incense  me  against  him  — 
his  blood  be  upon  thy  head  !" 

"It  will !  it  will ! "  said  the  good  man,  in  an  agony  of  sorrow. 
"Thou  and  I  must  never  hope  to  go  where  this  blessed  youth  is 
going  ! " 

"Dispatch!"  said  Manfred:  "I  am  no  more  to  be  moved 
by  the  whining  of  priests  than  by  the  shrieks  of  women." 


522  HORACE   WALPOLE 

"What !"  said  the  youth,  "is  it  possible  that  my  fate  could 
have  occasioned  what  I  heard  !  is  the  princess  then  again  in  thy 
power?" 

"Thou  dost  but  remember  me  of  my  wrath,"  said  Manfred: ' 
"prepare  thee,  for  this  moment  is  thy  last." 

The  youth,  who  felt  his  indignation  rise,  and  who  was  touched 
with  the  sorrow  which  he  saw  he  had  infused  into  all  the  spec- 
tators, as  well  as  into  the  friar,  suppressed  his  emotions,  and 
putting  off  his  doublet,  and  unbuttoning  his  collar,  knelt  down 
to  his  prayers.  As  he  stooped,  his  shirt  sUpped  down  below  his 
shoulder,  and  discovered  the  mark  of  a  bloody  arrow. 

"Gracious  heaven!"  cried  the  holy  man,  starting,  "what 
do  I  see  !     It  is  my  child  !    my  Theodore  ! " 

The  passions  that  ensued  must  be  conceived ;  they  cannot  be 
painted.  The  tears  of  the  assistants  were  suspended  by  wonder 
rather  than  stopped  with  joy.  They  seemed  to  inquire  in  the 
eyes  of  their  lord  what  they  ought  to  feel.  Surprise,  doubt, 
tenderness,  respect,  succeeded  each  other  in  the  countenance  of 
the  youth.  He  received,  with  modest  submission,  the  effusion 
of  the  old  man's  tears  and  embraces  ;  yet  afraid  of  giving  a  loose 
to  hope,  and  suspecting  from  what  had  passed,  the  inflexibihty 
of  Manfred's  temper,  he  cast  a  glance  towards  the  prince,  as  if 
to  say,  Canst  thou  be  unmoved  at  such  a  scene  as  this  ? 

Manfred's  heart  was  capable  of  being  touched.  He  forgot 
his  anger  in  his  astonishment ;  yet  his  pride  forbade  his  owning 
himself  affected.  He  even  doubted  whether  this  discovery  was 
not  a  contrivance  of  the  friar  to  save  the  youth. 

"What  may  this  mean  ?"  said  he :  "how  can  he  be  thy  son  ? 
Is  it  consistent  with  thy  profession  or  reputed  sanctity  to  avow 
a  peasant's  offspring  for  the  fruit  of  thy  irregular  amours  !" 

"Oh,  God!"  said  the  holy  man,  "dost  thou  question  his 
being  mine  ?  could  I  feel  the  anguish  I  do,  if  I  were  not  his 
father  ?  Spare  him  !  good  prince,  spare  him  !  and  revile  me  as 
thou  pleasest." 

"Spare  him!  spare  him!"  cried  the  attendants,  "for  this 
good  man's  sake  !" 

"Peace  !"  said  Manfred,  sternly  ;  "I  must  know  more,  ere  I  am 
disposed  to  pardon. — A  saint's  bastard  may  be  no  saint  himself." 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  523 

"Injurious  lord  !"  said  Theodore,  "add  not  insult  to  cruelty. 
If  I  am  this  venerable  man's  son,  though  no  prince  as  thou  art, 
know  the  blood  that  flows  in  my  veins  — " 

"Yes,"  said  the  friar,  interrupting  him,  "his  blood  is  noble, 
nor  is  he  that  abject  thing,  my  lord,  you  speak  him.  He  is  my 
lawful  son  :  and  Sicily  can  boast  of  few  houses  more  ancient 
than  that  of  Falconara  —  but  alas  !  my  lord,  what  is  blood  ! 
what  is  nobility  !  We  are  all  reptiles,  miserable,  sinful  creatures. 
It  is  piety  alone  that  can  distinguish  us  from  the  dust  whence  we 
sprung,  and  whither  we  must  return." 

"Truce  to  your  sermon,"  said  Manfred ;  "you  forget  you  are 
no  longer  friar  Jerome,  but  the  Count  of  Falconara.  Let  me 
know  your  history ;  you  will  have  time  to  moralise  hereafter, 
if  you  should  not  happen  to  obtain  the  grace  of  that  sturdy 
criminal  there." 

"Mother  of  God  !"  said  the  friar,  "is  it  possible  my  lord  can 
refuse  a  father  the  life  of  his  only,  his  long-lost  child  !  Trample 
me,  my  lord,  scorn,  afflict  me,  accept  my  life  for  his,  but  spare 
my  son  !" 

"Thou  canst  feel,  then,"  said  Manfred,  "what  it  is  to  lose  an 
only  son  ?  —  A  little  hour  ago,  thou  didst  preach  up  resignation 
to  me  :  my  house,  if  Fate  so  please,  must  perish  —  but  the  Count 
of  Falconara " 

"Alas!  my  lord,"  said  Jerome,  "I  confess  I  have  offended; 
but  aggravate  not  an  old  man's  sufferings :  I  boast  not  of  my 
family,  nor  think  of  such  vanities  —  it  is  nature  that  pleads 
for  this  boy  ;  it  is  the  memory  of  the  dear  woman  that  bore  him 
—  is  she,  Theodore,  is  she  dead?" 

"Her  soul  has  long  been  with  the  blessed,"  said  Theodore. 

"Oh  !  how  !"  cried  Jerome,  "tell  me  —  no  —  she  is  happy  ! 
thou  art  all  my  care  now  !  Most  dread  lord  !  will  you  —  will 
you  grant  me  my  poor  boy's  life  ?  " 

"Return  to  thy  convent,"  answered  Manfred;  "conduct  the 
princess  hither;  obey  me  in  what  else  thou  knowest,  and  I 
promise  thee  the  life  of  thy  son." 

"Oh  !  my  lord,"  said  Jerome,  "is  my  honesty  the  price  I  must 
pay  for  this  dear  youth's  safety?" 

"For  me  !"  cried  Theodore;    "let  me  die  a  thousand  deaths, 


524  HORACE   WALPOLE 

rather  than  stain  thy  conscience.  What  is  it  the  tyrant  would 
exact  of  thee  ?  Is  the  princess  still  safe  from  his  power  ?  pro- 
tect her,  thou  venerable  old  man :  and  let  all  the  weight  of  his 
wrath  fall  on  me." 

Jerome  endeavoured  to  check  the  impetuosity  of  the  youth ; 
and  ere  Manfred  could  reply,  the  trampHng  of  horses  was  heard, 
and  a  brazen  trumpet,  which  hung  without  the  gate  of  the  castle, 
was  suddenly  sounded.  At  the  same  instant  the  sable  plumes  on 
the  enchanted  helmet,  which  still  remained  at  the  other  end  of 
the  court,  were  tempestuously  agitated,  and  nodded  thrice,  as 
if  bowed  by  some  invisible  wearer. 

CHAPTER   III 

Manfred's  heart  misgave  him  when  he  beheld  the  plumage 
on  the  miraculous  casque  shaken  in  concert  with  the  sounding 
of  the  brazen  trumpet.  "Father  !"  said  he  to  Jerome,  whom  he 
now  ceased  to  treat  as  Count  of  Falconara,  ''what  mean  these 
portents?     If  I  have  offended  — ^" 

The  plumes  were  shaken  with  greater  violence  than  before. 
"Unhappy  prince  that  I  am  !"  cried  Manfred  —  "Holy  father  ! 
will  you  not  assist  me  with  your  prayers?" 

"My  lord,"  replied  Jerome,  "Heaven  is  no  doubt  displeased 
with  your  mockery  of  its  servants.  Submit  yourself  to  the 
church :  and  cease  to  persecute  her  ministers.  Dismiss  this 
innocent  youth  ;  and  learn  to  respect  the  holy  character  I  wear ; 
Heaven  will  not  be  trifled  with  :  you  see  "  —  the  trumpet  sounded 
again. 

"I  acknowledge  I  have  been  too  hasty,"  said  Manfred. 
"Father,  do  you  go  to  the  wicket,  and  demand  who  is  at  the 
gate." 

"Do  you  grant  me  the  life  of  Theodore?"  replied  the  friar. 

"I  do,"  said  Manfred;    "but  inquire  who  is  without !" 

Jerome,  falling  on  the  neck  of  his  son,  discharged  a  flood  of 
tears,  that  spoke  the  fulness  of  his  soul. 

"You  promised  to  go  to  the  gate,"  said  Manfred. 

"I  thought,"  replied  the  friar,  "your  highness  would  excuse 
my  thanking  you  first  in  this  tribute  of  my  heart." 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO 


525 


*'Go,  dearest  sir,"  said  Theodore,  "obey  the  prince :  I  do  not 
deserve  that  you  should  delay  his  satisfaction  for  me." 

Jerome  inquiring  who  was  without,  was  answered,  "A  herald." 

"From  whom?"  said  he. 

"From  the  Knight  of  the  Gigantic  Sabre,"  said  the  herald; 
"and  I  must  speak  with  the  usurper  of  Otranto." 

Jerome  returned  to  the  prince,  and  did  not  fail  to  repeat  the 
message  in  the  very  words  it  had  been  uttered.  The  first  sounds 
struck  Manfred  with  terror ;  but  when  he  heard  himself  styled 
usurper,  his  rage  rekindled,  and  all  his  courage  revived. 

"Usurper  !  —  insolent  villain  !"  cried  he,  "who  dares  to  ques- 
tion my  title  ?  Retire,  father :  this  is  no  business  for  monks. 
I  will  meet  this  presumptuous  man  myself.  Go  to  your  con- 
vent, and  prepare  the  princess's  return  :  your  son  shall  be  a  hos- 
tage for  your  fidelity;    his  life  depends  upon  your  obedience." 

"Good  heaven  !  my  lord,"  cried  Jerome,  "your  highness  did 
but  this  instant  freely  pardon  my  child,  —  have  you  so  soon 
forgot  the  interposition  of  Heaven?" 

"Heaven,"  replied  Manfred,  "does  not  send  heralds  to  ques- 
tion the  title  of  a  lawful  prince ;  —  I  doubt  whether  it  even 
notifies  its  will  through  friars ;  —  but  that  is  your  affair  — 
not  mine.  At  present  you  know  my  pleasure,  and  it  is  not  a 
saucy  herald  that  shall  save  your  son,  if  you  do  not  return  with 
the  princess." 

It  was  in  vain  for  the  holy  man  to  reply.  Manfred  com- 
manded him  to  be  conducted  to  the  postern  gate,  and  shut 
out  from  the  castle :  and  he  ordered  some  of  his  attendants 
to  carry  Theodore  to  the  top  of  the  Black  Tower,  and  guard 
him  strictly;  scarce  permitting  the  father  and  son  to  exchange 
a  hasty  embrace  at  parting.  He  then  withdrew  to  the  hall, 
and,  seating  himself  in  princely  state,  ordered  the  herald  to  be 
admitted  to  his  presence. 

"Well !  thou  insolent,"  said  the  prince;  "what  wouldst  thou 
with  me?" 

"I  come,"  replied  he,  "to  thee,  Manfred,  usurper  of  the  prin- 
cipahty  of  Otranto,  from  the  renowned  and  invincible  knight, 
the  Knight  of  the  Gigantic  Sabre:  in  the  name  of  his  lord, 
Frederick  Marquis  of  Vicenza,  he  demands  the  Lady  Isabella, 


526  HORACE   WALPOLE 

daughter  of  that  prince,  whom  thou  hast  basely  and  traitorously 
got  into  thy  power,  by  bribing  her  false  guardians  during  his 
absence ;  and  he  requires  thee  to  resign  the  principahty  of 
Otranto,  which  thou  hast  usurped  from  the  said  lord  Frederick, 
the  nearest  of  blood  to  the  last  rightful  lord  Alfonso  the  Good. 
If  thou  dost  not  instantly  comply  with  these  just  demands,  he 
defies  thee  to  single  combat  to  the  last  extremity."  And  so 
saying,  the  herald  cast  down  his  warder. 

"And  where  is  this  braggart  who  sends  thee?"  said  Manfred. 

"At  the  distance  of  a  league,"  said  the  herald:  "he  comes 
to  make  good  his  lord's  claim  against  thee,  as  he  is  a  true  knight, 
and  thou  an  usurper  and  a  ravisher." 

Injurious  as  this  challenge  was,  Manfred  reflected  that  it 
was  not  his  interest  to  provoke  the  Marquis.  He  knew  how 
well-founded  the  claim  of  Frederick  was ;  nor  was  this  the  first 
time  he  had  heard  of  it.  Frederick's  ancestors  had  assumed 
the  style  of  Princes  of  Otranto,  from  the  death  of  Alfonso  the 
Good  without  issue :  but  Manfred,  his  father,  and  grandfather, 
had  been  too  powerful  for  the  house  of  Vicenza  to  dispossess 
them.  Frederick,  a  martial  and  amorous  young  prince,  married 
a  beautiful  young  lady,  of  whom  he  was  enamoured,  and  who  had 
died  in  child-bed  of  Isabella.  Her  death  aft"ected  him  so  much 
that  he  had  taken  the  cross,  and  gone  to  the  Holy  Land,  where 
he  was  wounded  in  an  engagement  against  the  infidels,  made 
prisoner,  and  reported  to  be  dead.  When  the  news  reached 
Manfred's  ears,  he  bribed  the  guardians  of  the  Lady  Isabella 
to  deliver  her  up  to  him  as  a  bride  for  his  son  Conrad ;  by  which 
alliance  he  had  proposed  to  unite  the  claims  of  the  two  houses. 
This  motive,  on  Conrad's  death,  had  cooperated  to  make  him  so 
suddenly  resolve  on  espousing  her  himself,  and  the  same  re- 
flection determined  him  now  to  endeavour  at  obtaining  the 
consent  of  Frederick  to  his  marriage.  A  like  policy  inspired 
him  with  the  thought  of  inviting  Frederick's  champion  into 
his  castle,  lest  he  should  be  informed  of  Isabella's  flight,  which 
he  strictly  enjoined  his  domestics  not  to  disclose  to  any  of  the 
knight's  retinue. 

"Herald,"  said  Manfred,  as  soon  as  he  had  digested  these 
reflections,  "return  to  thy  master,  and  tell  him,  ere  we  liqui- 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  527 

date  our  differences  by  the  sword,  Manfred  would  hold  some 
converse  with  him.  Bid  him  welcome  to  my  castle,  where,  by 
my  faith,  as  I  am  a  true  knight,  he  shall  have  courteous  recep- 
tion, and  full  security  for  himself  and  followers.  If  we  cannot 
adjust  our  quarrel  by  amicable  means,  I  swear  he  shall  depart 
in  safety,  and  shall  have  full  satisfaction,  according  to  the  laws 
of  arms,  so  help  me  God,  and  his  holy  Trinity  !"  The  herald 
made  three  obeisances,  and  retired. 

During  this  interview,  Jerome's  mind  was  agitated  by  a  thou- 
sand contrary  passions.  He  trembled  for  the  life  of  his  son, 
and  his  first  thought  was  to  persuade  Isabella  to  return  to  the 
castle.  Yet  he  was  scarce  less  alarmed  at  the  thought  of  her 
union  with  Manfred.  He  dreaded  HippoHta's  unbounded  sub- 
mission to  the  will  of  her  lord ;  and  though  he  did  not  doubt 
but  that  he  could  alarm  her  piety  not  to  consent  to  a  divorce, 
if  he  could  get  access  to  her;  yet,  should  Manfred  discover 
that  the  obstruction  came  from  him,  it  might  be  equally  fatal 
to  Theodore.  He  was  impatient  to  know  whence  came  the 
herald,  who  with  so  Httle  management  had  questioned  the  title 
of  Manfred ;  yet  he  did  not  dare  absent  himself  from  the  con- 
vent, lest  Isabella  should  leave  it,  and  her  flight  be  imputed  to 
him.  He  returned  disconsolately  to  the  monastery,  uncertain 
on  what  conduct  to  resolve.  A  monk,  who  met  him  in  the  porch, 
and  observed  his  melancholy  air,  said,  "Alas  !  brother,  is  it  then 
true,  that  we  have  lost  our  excellent  princess,  Hippolita?" 

The  holy  man  started,  and  cried,  "What  meanest  thou, 
brother?  I  came  this  instant  from  the  castle,  and  left  her  in 
perfect  health." 

"MarteUi,"  repHed  the  other  friar,  "passed  by  the  convent 
but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  on  his  way  from  the  castle,  and 
reported  that  her  highness  was  dead.  All  our  brethren  are  gone 
to  the  chapel,  to  pray  for  her  happy  transit  to  a  better  Hfe,  and 
willed  me  to  wait  thy  arrival.  They  know  thy  holy  attachment 
to  that  good  lady,  and  are  anxious  for  the  affliction  it  will  cause 
in  thee  —  indeed,  we  have  all  reason  to  weep  ;  she  was  a  mother 
to  our  house.  But  this  Hfe  is  but  a  pilgrimage ;  we  must  not 
murmur ;   we  shall  all  follow  her  !  —  may  our  end  be  like  hers." 

"Good  brother,  thou  dreamest,"  said  Jerome;    "I  tell  thee 


528  HORACE   WALPOLE 

I  come  from  the  castle,  and  left  the  princess  well.  Where  is 
the  Lady  Isabella?" 

"Poor  gentlewoman  !"  replied  the  friar;  "I  told  her  the  sad 
news,  and  offered  her  spiritual  comfort :  I  reminded  her  of  the 
transitory  condition  of  mortality,  and  advised  her  to  take  the 
veil :  I  quoted  the  example  of  the  holy  princess  Sanchia  of 
Arragon." 

"Thy  zeal  was  laudable,"  said  Jerome,  impatiently;  "but 
at  present  it  is  unnecessary  :  Hippolita  is  well  —  at  least,  I  trust 
in  the  Lord  she  is  ;  I  heard  nothing  to  the  contrary ;  —  yet  me- 
thinks  the  prince's  earnestness — ■'' 

"Well,  brother,  but  where  is  the  Lady  Isabella?" 

"I  know  not,"  said  the  friar;  "she  wept  much,  and  said  she 
would  retire  to  her  chamber." 

Jerome  left  his  comrade  abruptly,  and  hastened  to  the  prin- 
cess ;  but  she  was  not  in  her  chamber.  He  inquired  of  the 
domestics  of  the  convent,  but  could  learn  no  news  of  her.  He 
searched  in  vain  throughout  the  monastery  and  the  church, 
and  despatched  messengers  round  the  neighbourhood,  to  get 
intelligence  if  she  had  been  seen ;  but  to  no  purpose.  Nothing 
could  equal  the  good  man's  perplexity.  He  judged  that  Isabella, 
suspecting  Manfred  of  having  precipitated  his  wife's  death,  had 
taken  the  alarm,  and  withdrawn  herself  to  some  more  secret 
place  of  concealment.  This  new  flight  would  probably  carry 
the  prince's  fury  to  the  height.  The  report  of  Hippolita's  death, 
thought  it  seemed  almost  incredible,  increased  his  consternation  ; 
and  though  Isabella's  escape  bespoke  her  aversion  of  Manfred 
for  a  husband,  Jerome  could  feel  no  comfort  from  it,  while  it 
endangered  the  life  of  his  son.  He  determined  to  return  to  the 
castle,  and  made  several  of  his  brethren  accompany  him  to  attest 
his  innocence  to  Manfred,  and.  if  necessary,  join  their  interces- 
sion with  his,  for  Theodore. 

The  prince,  in  the  mean  time,  had  passed  into  the  court,  and 
ordered  the  gates  of  the  castle  to  be  flung  open  for  the  reception 
of  the  stranger  knight  and  his  train.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
cavalcade  arrived.  First  came  two  harbingers,  with  wands ; 
next  a  herald,  followed  by  two  pages  and  two  trumpets ;  then 
a  hundred  foot-guards  :    these  were  attended  by  as  many  horse ; 


THE  CASTLE  OF  OTRANTO         529 

after  them  fifty  footmen,  clothed  in  scarlet  and  black,  the  colours 
of  the  knight ;  then  a  led  horse ;  two  heralds  on  each  side  of  a 
gentleman  on  horseback,  bearing  a  banner  with  the  arms  of 
Vicenza  and  Otranto  quarterly  —  a  circumstance  that  much 
offended  Manfred ;  but  he  stifled  his  resentment.  Two  more 
pages  ;  the  knight's  confessor  telling  his  beads  ;  fifty  more  foot- 
men, clad  as  before  ;  two  knights  habited  in  complete  armour, 
their  beavers  down,  comrades  to  the  principal  knight ;  the 
esquires  of  the  two  knights,  carrying  their  shields  and  devices  ; 
the  knight's  own  esquire  ;  a  hundred  gentlemen,  bearing  an  enor- 
mous sword,  and  seeming  to  faint  under  the  weight  of  it ;  the 
knight  himself  on  a  chestnut  steed,  in  complete  armour,  his 
lance  in  the  rest,  his  face  entirely  concealed  by  his  vizor,  which 
was  surmounted  by  a  large  plume  of  scarlet  and  black  feathers  ; 
fifty  foot-guards  with  drums  and  trumpets  closed  the  proces- 
sion, which  wheeled  off  to  the  right  and  left,  to  make  room  for 
the  principal  knight. 

As  soon  as  he  approached  the  gate,  he  stopped,  and  the 
herald  advancing,  read  again  the  words  of  the  challenge.  Man- 
fred's eyes  were  fixed  on  the  gigantic  sword,  and  he  scarce  seemed 
to  attend  to  the  cartel  :  but  his  attention  was  soon  diverted  by 
a  tempest  of  wind  that  rose  behind  him.  He  turned  and  beheld 
the  plumes  of  the  enchanted  helmet  agitated  in  the  same  extraor- 
dinary manner  as  before.  It  required  intrepidity  like  Man- 
fred's not  to  sink  under  a  concurrence  of  circumstances  that 
seemed  to  announce  his  fate.  Yet,  scorning  in  the  presence  of 
strangers  to  betray  the  courage  he  had  always  manifested,  he 
said  boldly,  *'  Sir  Knight,  whoever  thou  art,  I  bid  thee  welcome. 
If  thou  art  of  mortal  mould,  thy  valour  shall  meet  its  equal, 
and  if  thou  art  a  true  knight,  thou  will  scorn  to  employ  sorcery 
to  carry  thy  point.  Be  these  omens  from  heaven  or  hell,  Man- 
fred trusts  to  the  righteousness  of  his  cause,  and  to  the  aid  of 
St.  Nicholas,  who  has  ever  protected  his  house.  Alight,  Sir 
Knight,  and  repose  thyself.  To-morrow  thou  shalt  have  a 
fair  field  ;    and  Heaven  befriend  the  juster  side." 

The  knight  made  no  reply  ;  but,  dismounting,  was  conducted 
by  Manfred  to  the  great  hall  of  the  castle.  As  they  traversed 
the  court,  the  knight  stopped  to  gaze  on  the  miraculous  casque  : 


530  HORACE  WALPOLE 

and,  kneeling  down,  seemed  to  pray  inwardly  for  some  minutes. 
Rising,  he  made  a  sign  to  the  prince  to  lead  on.  As  soon  as  they 
entered  the  hall,  Manfred  proposed  to  the  stranger  to  disarm, 
but  the  knight  shook  his  head  in  token  of  refusal. 

''Sir  Knight,"  said  Manfred,  "this  is  not  courteous;  but  by 
my  good  faith  I  will  not  cross  thee ;  nor  shalt  thou  have  cause 
to  complain  of  the  Prince  of  Otranto.  No  treachery  is  designed 
on  my  part ;  I  hope  none  is  intended  on  thine ;  here,  take  my 
gage  (giving  him  his  ring) ;  your  friends  and  you  shall  enjoy  the 
laws  of  hospitality.  Rest  here  until  refreshments  are  brought : 
I  will  but  give  orders  for  the  accommodation  of  your  train,  and 
return  to  you." 

The  three  knights  bowed,  as  accepting  his  courtesy.  Man- 
fred directed  the  stranger's  retinue  to  be  conducted  to  an  adjacent 
hospital,  founded  by  the  princess  Hippolita  for  the  reception  of 
pilgrims.  As  they  made  the  circuit  of  the  court  to  return 
towards  the  gate,  the  gigantic  sword  burst  from  the  supporters, 
and,  falling  to  the  ground  opposite  to  the  helmet,  remained 
immoveable.  Manfred,  almost  hardened  to  preternatural  ap- 
pearances, surmounted  the  shock  of  this  new  prodigy ;  and, 
returning  to  the  hall,  where  by  this  time  the  feast  was  ready,  he 
invited  his  silent  guests  to  take  their  places.  Manfred,  however 
ill  his  heart  was  at  ease,  endeavoured  to  inspire  the  company 
with  mirth.  He  put  several  questions  to  them,  but  was  an- 
swered only  by  signs.  They  raised  their  vizors  but  sufficiently 
to  feed  themselves,  and  that  sparingly. 

"Sirs,"  said  the  prince,  "ye  are  the  first  guests  I  ever  treated 
within  these  walls  who  scorned  to  hold  any  intercourse  with  me ; 
nor  has  it  oft  been  customary,  I  ween,  for  princes  to  hazard  their 
state  and  dignity  against  strangers  and  mutes.  You  say  you 
come  in  the  name  of  Frederick  of  Vicenza;  I  have  ever  heard 
that  he  was  a  gallant  and  courteous  knight ;  nor  would  he,  I  am 
bold  to  say,  think  it  beneath  him  to  mix  in  social  converse  with 
a  prince  that  is  his  equal,  and  not  unknown  by  deeds  in  arms 
—  Still  ye  arc  silent  -  well  !  be  it  as  it  may  —  by  the  laws  of 
hospitality  and  chivalry  ye  are  masters  under  this  roof :  ye  shall 
do  your  pleasure  —  but  come,  give  me  a  goblet  of  wine;  you 
will  not  refuse  to  pledge  mc  to  the  healths  of  your  fair  mistresses." 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  531 

The  principal  knight  sighed  and  crossed  himself,  and  was 
rising  from  the  board. 

"Sir  Knight,"  said  Manfred,  "what  I  said  was  but  in  sport: 
I  shall  constrain  you  in  nothing :  use  your  good  liking.  Since 
mirth  is  not  your  mood,  let  us  be  sad.  Business  may  hit  your 
fancies  better :  let  us  withdraw ;  and  hear  if  what  I  have  to 
unfold  may  be  better  relished  than  the  vain  efforts  I  have  made 
for  your  pastime." 

Manfred  then,  conducting  the  three  knights  into  an  inner 
chamber,  shut  the  door,  and  inviting  them  to  be  seated,  began 
thus,  addressing  himself  to  the  chief  personage. 

"You  come,  Sir  Knight,  as  I  understand,  in  the  name  of  the 
Marquis  of  Vicenza,  to  re-demand  the  Lady  Isabella,  his 
daughter,  who  has  been  contracted  in  the  face  of  the  holy  church 
to  my  son,  by  the  consent  of  her  legal  guardians  :  and  to  require 
me  to  resign  my  dominions  to  your  lord,  who  gives  himself 
for  the  nearest  of  blood  to  Prince  Alfonso,  whose  soul  God  rest ! 
I  shall  speak  to  the  latter  article  of  your  demand  first.  You 
must  know,  your  lord  knows,  that  I  enjoy  the  principality  of 
Otranto  from  my  father,  Don  Manuel,  as  he  received  it  from 
his  father,  Don  Ricardo.  Alfonso,  their  predecessor,  dying 
childless  in  the  Holy  Land,  bequeathed  his  estates  to  my 
grandfather,  Don  Ricardo,  in  consideration  of  his  faithful 
services." 

The  stranger  shook  his  head. 

"Sir  Knight,"  said  Manfred  warmly,  "Ricardo  was  a  valiant 
and  upright  man ;  he  was  a  pious  man ;  witness  his  munificent 
foundation  of  the  adjoining  church  and  two  convents.  He  was 
peculiarly  patronized  by  St.  Nicholas  —  my  grandfather  was 
incapable  —  I  say,  sir,  Don  Ricardo  was  incapable  —  excuse  me, 
your  interruption  has  disordered  me  —  I  venerate  the  memory 
of  my  grandfather  —  well  !  sirs,  he  held  this  estate ;  he  held  it 
by  his  good  sword  and  by  the  favour  of  St.  Nicholas  —  so  did 
my  father ;  and  so,  sirs,  will  I,  come  what  will.  —  But  Frederick, 
your  lord,  is  nearest  in  blood  —  I  have  consented  to  put  my  title 
to  the  issue  of  the  sword  —  does  that  imply  a  vicious  title  ?  — 
I  might  have  asked,  where  is  Frederick  your  lord  ?  Report  speaks 
him  dead  in  captivity.     You  say,  your  actions  say,  he  lives  —  I 


532 


HORACE   WALPOLE 


question  it  not  —  I  might,  sirs,  I  might  —  but  I  do  not.  Other 
princes  would  bid  Frederick  take  his  inheritance  by  force,  if  he 
can:  they  would  not  stake  their  dignity  on  a  single  combat; 
they  would  not  submit  it  to  the  decision  of  unknown  mutes  ! 
■ — pardon  me,  gentlemen,  I  am  too  warm:  but  suppose  your- 
selves in  my  situation :  as  ye  are  stout  knights,  would  it  not 
move  your  choler  to  have  your  own  and  the  honour  of  your  an- 
cestors called  in  question  ?  —  But  to  the  point.     You  require 

me  to  deliver  up  the  Lady  Isabella Sirs,  I  must  ask  if  ye 

are  authorised  to  receive  her?" 

The  knight  nodded. 

"Receive  her,"  continued  Manfred;  "well!  you  are  author- 
ised to  receive  her but,  gentle  knight,  may  I  ask  if  you  have 

full  powers  ?" 

The  knight  nodded. 

"It  is  well,"  said  Manfred :  "then  hear  what  I  have  to  offer. 
Ye  see,  gentlemen,  before  you  the  most  unhappy  of  men  !  (he 
began  to  weep).  Afford  me  your  compassion :  I  am  entitled 
to  it ;  indeed  I  am.  Know  I  have  lost  my  only  hope,  my  joy, 
the  support  of  my  house  —  Conrad  died  yesterday  morning. " 
The  knights  discovered  signs  of  surprise.  "Yes,  sirs,  fate  has 
disposed  of  my  son.     Isabella  is  at  liberty." 

"Do  you,  then,  restore  her  !"  cried  the  chief  knight,  breaking 
silence. 

"Afford  me  your  patience,"  said  Manfred.  "I  rejoice  to 
find,  by  this  testimony  of  your  good-will,  that  this  matter  may 
be  adjusted  without  blood.  It  is  no  interest  of  mine  dictates 
what  httle  I  have  farther  to  say.  Ye  behold  in  me  a  man  dis- 
gusted with  the  world  :  the  loss  of  my  son  has  weaned  me  from 
earthly  cares.  Power  and  greatness  have  no  longer  any  charms 
in  my  eyes.  I  wished  to  transmit  the  sceptre  I  had  received 
from  my  ancestors  with  honour  to  my  son  —  but  that  is  over  ! 
Life  itself  is  so  indifferent  to  me  that  I  accepted  your  defiance 
with  joy :  a  good  knight  cannot  go  to  the  grave  with  more 
satisfaction  then  when  faUing  in  his  vocation :  whatever  is  the 
will  of  Heaven,  I  submit  to  :  for  alas  !  sirs,  I  am  a  man  of  many 
sorrows.  Manfred  is  no  object  of  envy  —  but,  no  doubt,  you 
are  acquainted  with  my  story." 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  533 

The  knight  made  signs  of  ignorance,  and  seemed  curious  to 
have  Manfred  proceed. 

"Is  it  possible,  sirs,"  continued  the  prince,  "that  my  story 
should  be  a  secret  to  you  ?  —  have  you  heard  nothing  relating 
to  me  and  the  Princess  Hippolita?"  They  shook,  their  heads. 
"No  !  thus  then,  sirs,  it  is.  You  think  me  ambitious  :  ambition, 
alas,  is  composed  of  more  rugged  materials.  If  I  were  ambitious, 
I  should  not  for  so  many  years  have  been  a  prey  to  all  the  hell 
of  conscientious  scruples  —  But  I  weary  your  patience ;  I  will 
be  brief.  Know,  then,  that  I  have  long  been  troubled  in  mind 
on  my  union  with  the  Princess  Hippolita  —  Oh  !  sirs,  if  ye  were 
acquainted  with  that  excellent  woman  !  if  ye  knew  that  I  adore 
her  like  a  mistress,  and  cherish  her  as  a  friend  —  but  man  was 
not  born  for  perfect  happiness  !  —  she  shares  my  scruples,  and 
with  her  consent  I  have  brought  this  matter  before  the  church, 
for  we  are  related  within  the  forbidden  degrees.  I  expect  every 
hour  the  definite  sentence  that  must  separate  us  for  ever  —  I 
am  sure  you  feel  for  me  —  I  see  you  do  —  pardon  these  tears  !" 

The  knights  gazed  on  each  other,  wondering  where  this  would 
end. 

Manfred  continued:  "The  death  of  my  son  betiding  while 
my  soul  was  under  this  anxiety,  I  thought  of  nothing  but  resign- 
ing my  dominions,  and  retiring  for  ever  from  the  sight  of  man- 
kind. My  only  difficulty  was  to  fix  on  a  successor,  who  would 
be  tender  of  my  people,  and  to  dispose  of  the  Lady  Isabella,  who 
is  dear  to  me  as  my  own  blood.  I  was  willing  to  restore  the  line 
of  Alfonso,  even  in  his  most  distant  kindred  :  and  though,  par- 
don me,  I  am  satisfied  it  was  his  will  that  Ricardo's  lineage 
should  take  place  of  his  own  relations,  yet  where  was  I  to  search 
for  those  relations  ?  I  knew  of  none  but  Frederick,  your  lord ; 
he  was  a  captive  to  the  infidels,  or  dead ;  and  were  he  living,  and 
at  home,  would  he  quit  the  flourishing  state  of  Vicenza  for  the 
inconsiderable  principality  of  Otranto  ?  If  he  would  not,  could 
I  bear  the  thought  of  seeing  a  hard,  unfeeling  viceroy  set  over 
my  poor,  faithful  people  ?  —  for,  sirs,  I  love  my  people,  and, 
thank  heaven,  am  beloved  by  them  —  But  ye  will  ask  whither 
tends  this  long  discourse  ?  —  briefly  then,  thus,  sirs.  Heaven 
in  your  arrival  seems  to  point  out  a  remedy  for  these  difficulties 


534 


HORx\CE   WALPOLE 


and  my  misfortunes.  The  Lady  Isabella  is  at  liberty;  I  shall 
soon  be  so  —  I  would  submit  to  any  thing  for  the  good  of  my 
people  —  were  it  not  the  best,  the  only  way  to  extinguish  the 
feuds  between  our  famihes,  if  I  was  to  take  the  Lady  Isabella 
to  wife  ?  — -  You  start  —  but  though  Hippolita's  virtues  will 
ever  be  dear  to  me,  a  prince  must  not  consider  himself;  he  is 
born  for  his  people." 

A  servant  at  that  instant  entering  the  chamber,  apprised 
Manfred  that  Jerome  and  several  of  his  brethren  demanded 
immediate  access  to  him. 

The  prince,  provoked  at  this  interruption,  and  fearing  that 
the  friar  would  discover  to  the  strangers  that  Isabella  had 
taken  sanctuary,  was  going  to  forbid  Jerome's  entrance.  But 
recollecting  that  he  was  certainly  arrived  to  notify  the  princess's 
return,  Manfred  began  to  excuse  himself  to  the  knights  for  leav- 
ing them  for  a  few  moments,  but  was  prevented  by  the  arrival 
of  the  friars.  Manfred  angrily  reprimanded  them  for  their 
intrusion,  and  would  have  forced  them  back  from  the  chamber, 
but  Jerome  was  too  much  agitated  to  be  repulsed.  He  declared 
aloud  the  flight  of  Isabella,  with  protestations  of  his  own  inno- 
cence. Manfred,  distracted  at  the  news,  and  not  less  at  its 
coming  to  the  knowledge  of  the  strangers,  uttered  nothing  but 
incoherent  sentences ;  now  upbraiding  the  friar,  now  apologising 
to  the  knights,  earnest  to  know  what  was  become  of  Isabella, 
yet  equally  afraid  of  their  knowing ;  impatient  to  pursue  her, 
yet  dreading  to  have  them  join  in  the  pursuit.  He  offered  to 
dispatch  messengers  in  quest  of  her,  but  the  chief  knight,  no 
longer  keeping  silence,  reproached  Manfred  in  bitter  terms  for 
his  dark  and  ambiguous  dealing,  and  demanded  the  cause  of 
Isabella's  first  absence  from  the  castle.  Manfred,  casting  a  stern 
look  at  Jerome,  implying  a  command  of  silence,  pretended  that 
on  Conrad's  death  he  had  placed  her  in  sanctuary,  until  he  could 
determine  how  to  dispose  of  her.  Jerome,  who  trembled  for 
his  son's  life,  did  not  dare  contradict  this  falsehood,  but  one  of 
his  brethren,  not  under  the  same  anxiety,  declared  that  she  had 
fled  to  their  church  the  preceding  night.  The  prince  in  vain 
endeavoured  to  stop  this  discovery,  which  overwhelmed  him 
with  shame  and  confusion.     The  principal  stranger,  amazed  at 


THE   CASTLE   OF    OTRANTO  535 

the  contradictions  he  heard,  and  more  than  half  persuaded  that 
Manfred  had  secreted  the  princess,  notwithstanding  the  concern 
he  expressed  at  her  flight,  rushing  to  the  door,  said,  "Thou  traitor 
prince  !     Isabella  shall  be  found." 

Manfred  endeavoured  to  hold  him,  but  the  other  knights 
assisting  their  comrade,  he  broke  from  the  prince,  and  hastened 
into  the  court,  demanding  his  attendants.  Manfred  finding  it 
vain  to  divert  him  from  the  pursuit,  offered  to  accompany  him, 
and  summoning  his  attendants  and  taking  Jerome  and  some  of 
the  friars  to  guide  them,  they  issued  from  the  castle;  Manfred 
privately  giving  orders  to  have  the  knight's  company  secured, 
while  to  the  knight  he  affected  to  dispatch  a  messenger  to  require 
their  assistance. 

The  company  had  no  sooner  quitted  the  castle,  than  Matilda, 
who  felt  herself  deeply  interested  for  the  young  peasant,  since 
she  had  seen  him  condemned  to  death  in  the  hall,  and  whose 
thoughts  had  been  taken  up  with  concerting  measures  to  save 
him,  was  informed  by  some  of  the  female  attendants,  that  Man- 
fred had  dispatched  all  his  men  various  ways  in  pursuit  of  Isa- 
bella. He  had,  in  his  hurry,  given  this  order  in  general  terms, 
not  meaning  to  extend  it  to  the  guard  he  had  set  upon  Theodore, 
but  forgetting  it.  The  domestics,  officious  to  obey  so  peremp- 
tory a  prince,  and  urged  by  their  own  curiosity  and  love  of  novelty 
to  join  in  any  precipitate  chase,  had,  to  a  man,  left  the  castle. 
Matilda  disengaged  herself  from  her  women,  stole  up  to  the 
Black  Tower,  and  unbolting  the  door,  presented  herself  to  the 
astonished  Theodore. 

"Young  man,"  said  she,  "though  filial  duty  and  womanly 
modesty  condemn  the  step  I  am  taking,  yet  holy  charity,  sur- 
mounting all  other  ties,  justifies  this  act.  Fly;  the  doors  of 
thy  prison  are  open :  my  father  and  his  domestics  are  absent, 
but  they  may  soon  return  ;  begone  in  safety,  and  may  the  angels 
of  heaven  direct  thy  course  !" 

"Thou  art  surely  one  of  those  angels!"  said  the  enraptured 
Theodore:  "none  but  a  blessed  saint  could  speak,  could  act 
—  could  look  like  thee  !  —  May  I  not  know  the  name  of  my  di- 
vine protectress  ?  Methought  thou  namedst  thy  father :  is  it 
possible  ?  —  can  Manfred's  blood  feel  holy  pity  ?    Lovely  lady, 


536  HORACE  WALPOLE 

thou  answerest  not ;  —  but  how  art  thou  here  thyself  ?  why  dost 
thou  neglect  thy  own  safety,  and  waste  a  thought  on  a  wretch 
like  Theodore  ?  Let  us  fly  together :  the  Hfe  thou  bestowest 
shall  be  dedicated  to  thy  defence." 

"Alas  !  thou  mistakest,"  said  Matilda,  sighing;  "I  am  Man- 
fred's daughter;   but  no  danger  awaits  me." 

"Amazement!"  said  Theodore;  "but  last  night  I  blessed 
myself  for  yielding  thee  the  service  thy  gracious  compassion  so 
charitably  returns  me  now." 

"Still  thou  art  in  error,"  said  the  princess;  "but  this  is 
no  time  for  explanation.  Fly,  virtuous  youth,  while  it  is  in  my 
power  to  save  thee :  should  my  father  return,  thou  and  I  both 
should,  indeed,  have  cause  to  tremble." 

"How,"  said  Theodore;  "thinkest  thou,  charming  maid, 
that  I  will  accept  of  life  at  the  hazard  of  aught  calamitous  to 
thee?  —  better  I  endure  a  thousand  deaths." 

"I  run  no  risk,"  said  Matilda,  "but  by  thy  delay.  Depart, 
it  cannot  be  known  that  I  assisted  thy  flight." 

"Swear,  by  the  saints  above,"  said  Theodore,  "that  thou  canst 
not  be  suspected ;  else  here  I  vow  to  await  whatever  can  await 
me." 

"Oh!  thou  art  too  generous,"  said  Matilda;  "but  rest  as- 
sured that  no  suspicion  can  alight  on  me." 

"Give  me  thy  beauteous  hand,  in  token  that  thou  dost  not 
deceive  me,"  said  Theodore,  "and  let  me  bathe  it  with  the  warm 
tears  of  gratitude." 

"Forbear,"  said  the  princess,  "this  must  not  be." 

"Alas!"  said  Theodore,  "I  have  never  known  but  calamity 
until  this  hour  ;  perhaps,  shall  never  know  other  fortune  again  : 
suffer  the  chaste  raptures  of  holy  gratitude ;  it  is  my  soul  would 
print  its  effusions  on  thy  hand." 

"Forbear,  and  begone,"  said  Matilda;  "how  would  Isabella 
approve  of  seeing  thee  at  my  feet  ?  " 

"Who  is  Isabella?"  said  the  young  man,  with  surprise. 

"Ah  me  !  I  fear,"  said  the  princess,  "I  am  serving  a  deceitful 
one ;  —  hast  thou  forgotten  thy  curiosity  this  morning  ?  " 

"Thy  looks,  thy  actions,  all  thy  beauteous  self,  seems  an 
emanation  of  divinity,"  said  Theodore;    "but  thy  words  are 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  537 

dark  and  mysterious, speak,  lady ;   speak  to  thy  servant's 

comprehension." 

"Thou  understandest  but  too  well!"  said  Matilda:  "but 
once  more  I  command  thee  to  be  gone  :  thy  blood,  which  I  may 
preserve,  will  be  on  my  head,  if  I  waste  the  time  in  vain  dis- 
course." 

"I  go,  lady,"  said  Theodore,  "because  it  is  thy  will,  and  be- 
cause I  would  not  bring  the  grey  hairs  of  my  father  with  sorrow 
to  the  grave.     Say  but,  adored  lady,  that  I  have  thy  gentle  pity." 

"Stay,"  said  Matilda;  "I  will  conduct  thee  to  the  subter- 
raneous vault  by  which  Isabella  escaped  ;  it  will  lead  thee  to  the 
church  of  St.  Nicholas,  where  thou  mayest  take  sanctuary." 

"What,"  said  Theodore,  "was  it  another,  and  not  thy  lovely 
self,  that  I  assisted  to  find  the  subterraneous  passage?" 

"It  was,"  said  Matilda;  "but  ask  no  more:  I  tremble  to  see 
thee  still  abide  here:   fly  to  the  sanctuary." 

" To  sanctuary  ?"  said  Theodore  ;  "no,  princess;  sanctuaries 
are  for  helpless  damsels,  or  for  criminals.  Theodore's  soul  is 
free  from  guilt,  nor  will  wear  the  appearance  of  it.  Give  me  a 
sword,  lady,  and  thy  father  shall  learn  that  Theodore  scorns 
an  ignominious  flight." 

"Rash  youth  !"  said  Matilda,  "thou  wouldst  not  dare  to  hft 
thy  presumptuous  arm  against  the  prince  of  Otranto?" 

"Not  against  thy  father;  indeed,  I  dare  not,"  said  Theodore; 

"excuse  me,  lady,  I  had  forgotten but  could  I  gaze  on  thee, 

and  remember  thou  art  sprung  from  the  tyrant  Manfred  ! 

but  he  is  thy  father,  and  from  this  moment  my  injuries  are  buried 
in  oblivion." 

A  deep  and  hollow  groan,  which  seemed  to  come  from  above, 
startled  the  princess  and  Theodore. 

"Good  heavens  !    we  are  overheard  !"  said  the  princess. 

They  listened,  but  perceiving  no  farther  noise,  they  both 
concluded  it  the  effect  of  pent-up  vapours ;  and  the  princess, 
preceding  Theodore  softly,  carried  him  to  her  father's  armoury, 
where,  equipping  him  with  a  complete  suit,  he  was  conducted 
to  the  postern  gate. 

"Avoid  the  town,"  said  the  princess,  "and  all  the  western 
side  of  the  castle  :  it  is  there  the  search  must  be  making  by  Man- 


538  HORACE   WALPOLE 

fred  and  the  strangers :  but  hie  thee  to  the  opposite  quarter. 
Yonder,  behind  that  forest,  to  the  east,  is  a  chain  of  rocks,  hol- 
lowed into  a  labyrinth  of  caverns,  that  reach  to  the  sea-coast. 
There  thou  may  est  He  concealed,  till  thou  canst  make  signs 
to  some  vessel  to  put  on  shore  and  take  thee  off.  Go  :  Heaven 
be  thy  guide  !  —  and  sometimes  in  thy  prayers  remember  — - 
Matilda!" 

Theodore  flung  himself  at  her  feet,  and  seizing  her  Hly  hand, 
which  with  struggles  she  suffered  him  to  kiss,  he  vowed,  on  the 
earliest  opportunity,  to  get  himself  knighted,  and  fervently 
entreated  her  permission  to  swear  himself  eternally  her  knight. 

Ere  the  princess  could  reply,  a  clap  of  thunder  was  suddenly 
heard,  that  shook  the  battlements.  Theodore,  regardless  of 
the  tempest,  would  have  urged  his  suit ;  but  the  princess,  dis- 
mayed, retreated  hastily  into  the  castle,  and  commanded  the 
youth  to  begone,  with  an  air  that  would  not  be  disobeyed.  He 
sighed,  and  retired  ;  but  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  gate,  until  Matilda, 
closing  it,  put  an  end  to  an  interview,  in  which  the  hearts  of  both 
had  drunk  so  deeply  of  a  passion,  which  both  now  tasted  for  the 
first  time. 

Theodore  went  pensively  to  the  convent,  to  acquaint  his 
father  with  his  deHverance.  There  he  learned  the  absence  of 
Jerome,  and  the  pursuit  that  was  making  after  the  Lady  Isabella, 
with  some  particulars  of  whose  story  he  now  first  became  ac- 
quainted. The  generous  gallantry  of  his  nature  prompted  him 
to  wish  to  assist  her ;  but  the  monks  could  lend  him  no  lights 
to  guess  at  the  route  she  had  taken.  He  was  not  tempted  to 
wander  far  in  search  of  her,  for  the  idea  of  Matilda  had  im- 
printed itself  so  strongly  on  his  heart,  that  he  could  not  bear 
to  absent  himself  at  much  distance  from  her  abode.  The  ten- 
derness Jerome  had  expressed  for  him,  concurred  to  confirm 
this  reluctance ;  and  he  even  persuaded  himself  that  fihal  affec- 
tion was  the  chief  cause  of  his  hovering  between  the  castle  and 
monastery,  until  Jerome  should  return  at  night. 

Theodore  at  length  determined  to  repair  to  the  forest  that 
Matilda  had  pointed  out  to  him.  Arriving  there,  he  sought  the 
gloomiest  shades,  as  best  suited  to  the  pleasing  melancholy  that 
reigned  in  his  mind.     In  this  mood  he  roved  insensibly  to  the 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  539 

caves  which  had  formerly  served  as  a  retreat  to  hermits,  and 
were  now  reported  round  the  country  to  be  haunted  by  evil 
spirits.  He  recollected  to  have  heard  this  tradition  ;  and  being 
of  a  brave  and  adventurous  disposition,  he  wilHngly  indulged 
his  curiosity  in  exploring  the  secret  recesses  of  this  labyrinth. 
He  had  not  penetrated  far,  before  he  thought  he  heard  the  steps 
of  some  person  who  seemed  to  retreat  before  him,  Theodore, 
though  firmly  grounded  in  all  our  holy  faith  enjoins  to  be  believed, 
had  no  apprehension  that  good  men  were  abandoned,  without 
cause,  to  the  malice  of  the  powers  of  darkness.  He  thought  the 
place  more  likely  to  be  infested  by  robbers  than  by  those  infernal 
agents,  who  are  reported  to  molest  and  bewilder  travellers.  He 
had  long  burned  with  impatience  to  approve  his  valour.  Draw- 
ing his  sabre,  he  marched  sedately  onwards,  still  directing  his 
steps  as  the  imperfect  rustling  sound  before  him  led  the  way. 
The  armour  he  wore  was  a  like  indication  to  the  person  who 
avoided  him.  Theodore,  now  convinced  that  he  was  not  mis- 
taken, redoubled  his  pace,  and  evidently  gained  on  the  person 
that  fled,  whose  haste  increasing,  Theodore  came  up  just  as  a 
woman  fell  breathless  before  him.  He  hasted  to  raise  her,  but 
her  terror  was  so  great  that  he  apprehended  she  would  faint  in 
his  arms.  He  used  every  gentle  word  to  dispel  her  alarms,  and 
assured  her  that,  far  from  injuring,  he  would  defend  her  at  the 
peril  of  his  life. 

The  lady,  recovering  her  spirits  from  his  courteous  demeanour, 
and  gazing  on  her  protector,  said,  "Sure  I  have  heard  that  voice 
before!" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,"  replied  Theodore,  "unless,  as  I  con- 
jecture, thou  art  the  Lady  Isabella." 

"Merciful  heaven  !"  cried  she,  "thou  art  not  sent  in  quest  of 
me,  art  thou?"  and  saying  these  words,  she  threw  herself  at  his 
feet,  and  besought  him  not  to  dehver  her  up  to  Manfred. 

"To  Manfred!"  cried  Theodore;  "no,  lady;  I  have  once 
already  delivered  thee  from  his  tyranny,  and  it  shall  fare  hard 
with  me  now,  but  I  will  place  thee  out  of  the  reach  of  his 
daring." 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  she,  "that  thou  shouldst  be  the  generous 
unknown  whom  I  met  last  night  in  the  vault  of  the  castle  ?     Sure 


540  HORACE  WALPOLE 

thou  art  not  a  mortal,  but  my  guardian  angel.  On  my  knees 
let  me  thank " 

"Hold,  gentle  princess,"  said  Theodore,  "nor  demean  thyself 
before  a  poor  and  friendless  young  man.  If  Heaven  has  selected 
me  for  thy  deliverer,  it  will  accompUsh  its  work,  and  strengthen 
my  arm  in  thy  cause  :  but  come,  lady,  we  are  too  near  the  mouth 
of  the  cavern ;  let  us  seek  its  inmost  recesses :  I  can  have  no 
tranquillity  till  I  have  placed  thee  beyond  the  reach  of  danger. " 

"Alas!  what  mean  you,  sir?"  said  she.  "Though  all  your 
actions  are  noble,  though  your  sentiments  speak  the  purity  of 
your  soul,  is  it  fitting  that  I  should  accompany  you  alone  into 
these  perplexed  retreats  ?  —  should  we  be  found  together,  what 
would  a  censorious  world  think  of  my  conduct?" 

"I  respect  your  virtuous  delicacy,"  said  Theodore;  "nor 
do  you  harbour  a  suspicion  that  wounds  my  honour.  I  meant 
to  conduct  you  into  the  most  private  cavity  of  these  rocks,  and 
then,  at  the  hazard  of  my  Hfe,  to  guard  their  entrance  against 
every  living  thing.  Besides,  lady,"  continued  he,  drawing  a 
deep  sigh,  "beauteous  and  all-perfect  as  your  form  is,  and  though 
my  wishes  are  not  guiltless  of  aspiring,  know  my  soul  is  dedi- 
cated to  another;    and  although " 

A  sudden  noise  prevented  Theodore  from  proceeding.  They 
soon  distinguished  these  sounds,  "Isabella  !  what  ho  !  Isabella  !" 

The  trembHng  princess  relapsed  into  her  former  agony  of  fear. 
Theodore  endeavoured  to  encourage  her,  but  in  vain.  He  assured 
her  he  would  die  rather  than  suffer  her  to  return  under  Man- 
fred's power;  and  begging  her  to  remain  concealed,  he  went 
forth  to  prevent  the  person  in  search  of  her  from  approaching. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  cavern  he  found  an  armed  knight,  dis- 
coursing with  a  peasant,  who  assured  him  he  had  seen  a  lady 
enter  the  passes  of  the  rock.  The  knight  was  preparing  to  seek 
her,  when  Theodore,  placing  himself  in  his  way,  with  his  sword 
drawn,  sternly  forbade  him,  at  his  peril,  to  advance. 

"And  who  art  thou,  who  darest  to  cross  my  way?"  said  the 
knight  haughtily,  and  alighting. 

"One  who  does  not  dare  more  than  he  will  perform,"  said 
Theodore. 

"I  seek  the  Lady  Isabella,"  said  the  knight,  "and  understand 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  541 

she  has  taken  refuge  among  these  rocks.  Impede  me  not,  or 
thou  wilt  repent  having  provoked  my  resentment." 

"Thy  purpose  is  as  odious  as  thy  resentment  is  contemptible," 
said  Theodore.  "Return  whence  thou  camest,  or  we  shall  soon 
know  whose  resentment  is  most  terrible." 

The  stranger,  who  was  the  principal  knight  that  had  arrived 
from  the  Marquis  of  Vicenza,  had  galloped  from  Manfred,  as 
he  was  busied  in  getting  information  of  the  princess,  and  giving 
various  orders  to  prevent  her  falHng  into  the  power  of  the  three 
knights.  Their  chief  had  suspected  Manfred  of  being  privy  to 
the  princess's  absconding :  and  this  insult  from  a  man  who  he 
concluded  was  stationed  by  that  prince  to  secrete  her,  confirm- 
ing his  suspicions,  he  made  no  reply,  but  discharging  a  blow 
with  his  sabre  at  Theodore,  would  soon  have  removed  all  ob- 
struction, if  Theodore,  who  took  him  for  one  of  Manfred's 
captains,  and  who  had  no  sooner  given  the  provocation  than 
prepared  to  support  it,  had  not  received  the  stroke  on  his  shield. 
The  valour  that  had  so  long  been  smothered  in  his  breast  broke 
forth  at  once ;  he  rushed  impetuously  on  the  knight,  whose  pride 
and  wrath  were  not  less  powerful  incentives  to  hardy  deeds. 
The  combat  was  furious,  but  not  long :  Theodore  wounded  the 
knight  in  three  several  places,  and  at  last  disarmed  him,  as  he 
fainted  by  the  loss  of  blood.  The  peasant,  who  had  fled  on  the 
first  onset,  had  given  the  alarm  to  some  of  Manfred's  domestics, 
who  by  his  orders  were  dispersed  through  the  forest  in  pursuit  of 
Isabella.  They  came  up  as  the  knight  fell,  whom  they  soon 
discovered  to  be  the  noble  stranger.  Theodore,  notwithstanding 
his  hatred  to  Manfred,  could  not  behold  the  victory  he  had  gained 
without  emotions  of  pity  and  generosity :  but  he  was  more 
touched  when  he  learned  the  quality  of  his  adversary,  and  was 
informed  that  he  was  no  retainer,  but  an  enemy  of  Manfred.  He 
assisted  the  servants  of  the  latter  in  disarming  the  knight,  and  in 
endeavouring  to  staunch  the  blood  that  flowed  from  his  wounds. 

The  knight,  recovering  his  speech,  said  in  a  faint  and  falter- 
ing voice,  "  Generous  foe,  we  have  both  been  in  error :  I  took  thee 
for  an  instrument  of  the  tyrant ;  I  perceive  thou  hast  made  the 
like  mistake  —  it  is  too  late  for  excuses  —  I  faint  —  if  Isabella 
is  at  hand,  call  her  —  I  have  important  secrets  to  — — " 


542  HORACE  WALPOLE 

"He  is  dying  !"  said  one  of  the  attendants;  "has  nobody  a 
crucifix  about  them?     Andrea,  do  thou  pray  over  him." 

"Fetch  some  water,"  said  Theodore,  "and  pour  it  down  his 
throat,  while  I  hasten  to  the  princess." 

Saying  this,  he  flew  to  Isabella,  and  in  few  words  told  her, 
modestly^  that  he  had  been  so  unfortunate,  by  mistake,  as  to 
wound  a  gentleman  from  her  father's  court,  who  wished,  ere  he 
died,  to  impart  something  of  consequence  to  her.  The  prin- 
cess, who  had  been  transported  at  hearing  the  voice  of  Theo- 
dore, as  he  called  to  her  to  come  forth,  was  astonished  at  what 
she  heard.  Suffering  herself  to  be  conducted  by  Theodore,  the 
new  proof  of  whose  valour  recalled  her  dispersed  spirits,  she 
came  where  the  bleeding  knight  lay  speechless  on  the  ground ; 
but  her  fears  returned  when  she  beheld  the  domestics  of  Manfred. 
She  would  again  have  fled,  if  Theodore  had  not  made  her  observe 
that  they  were  unarmed,  and  had  not  threatened  them  with 
instant  death,  if  they  should  dare  to  seize  the  princess. 

The  stranger  opening  his  eyes,  and  beholding  a  woman,  said 
■ — "Art  thou  —  pray  tell  me  truly  —  art  thou  Isabella  of 
Vicenza?" 

"I  am,"  said  she;    "good  Heaven,  restore  thee!" 

"Then  thou  —  then  thou  —  "  said  the  knight,  struggling  for 
utterance  —  "seest  thy  father  —  give  me  one •" 

"Oh  !  amazement !  horror  !  what  do  I  hear  !  what  do  I  see  !" 
cried  Isabella.  "My  father!  you  my  father!  how  came  you 
here,  Sir  ?  —  for  Heaven's  sake,  speak  !  —  oh  !  run  for  help,  or 
he  will  expire  !" 

"It  is  most  true,"  said  the  wounded  knight,  exerting  all 
his  force :  "I  am  Frederick,  thy  father  ^  yes,  I  came  to  deliver 
thee  —  it  will  not  be  —  give  me  a  parting  kiss,  and  take " 

"Sir,"  said  Theodore,  "do  not  exhaust  yourself:  suffer  us  to 
convey  you  to  the  castle." 

"To  the  castle  !"  said  Isabella ;  "is  there  no  help  nearer  than 
the  castle  ?  —  would  you  expose  my  father  to  the  tyrant  ?  — 
if  he  goes  thither,  I  dare  not  accompany  him  —  and  yet,  can  I 
leave  him  ?" 

"My  child."  said  Frederick,  "it  matters  not  for  me  whither 
I  am  carried  :   a  few  minutes  will  place  me  beyond  danger ;   but 


THE   CASTLE  OF  OTRANTO  543 

while  I  have  eyes  to  dote  on  thee,  forsake  me  not,  dear  Isabella  ! 
This  brave  knight,  —  I  know  not  who  he  is,  — •  will  protect  thy 
innocence.     Sir,  you  will  not  abandon  my  child,  will  you  ?  " 

Theodore,  shedding  tears  over  his  victim,  and  vowing  to  guard 
the  princess  at  the  expense  of  his  life,  persuaded  Frederick  to 
suffer  himself  to  be  conducted  to  the  castle.  They  placed  him 
on  a  horse  belonging  to  one  of  the  domestics,  after  binding  up 
his  wounds  as  well  as  they  were  able.  Theodore  marched  by  his 
side,  and  the  afflicted  Isabella,  who  could  not  bear  to  quit  him, 
followed  mournfully  behind. 

CHAPTER   IV 

The  sorrowful  troop  no  sooner  arrived  at  the  castle  than  they 
were  met  by  Hippolita  and  Matilda,  whom  Isabella  had  sent 
one  of  the  domestics  before  to  advertise  of  their  approach.  The 
ladies  causing  Frederick  to  be  conveyed  into  the  nearest  chamber, 
retired,  while  the  surgeons  examined  his  wounds.  Matilda 
blushed  at  seeing  Theodore  and  Isabella  together :  but  en- 
deavoured to  conceal  it  by  embracing  the  latter,  and  condoling 
with  her  on  her  father's  mischance.  The  surgeons  soon  came  to 
acquaint  Hippolita  that  none  of  the  Marquis's  wounds  were 
dangerous ;  and  that  he  was  desirous  of  seeing  his  daughter  and 
the  princesses.  Theodore,  under  pretence  of  expressing  his  joy 
at  being  freed  from  his  apprehensions  of  the  combat  being  fatal 
to  Frederick,  could  not  resist  the  impulse  of  following  Matilda. 
Her  eyes  were  so  often  cast  down  on  meeting  his,  that  Isabella, 
who  regarded  Theodore  as  attentively  as  he  gazed  on  Matilda, 
soon  divined  who  the  object  was  that  he  had  told  her,  in  the  cave, 
engaged  his  affections. 

While  this  mute  scene  passed,  Hippolita  demanded  of  Frederick 
the  cause  of  his  having  taken  that  mysterious  course  for  reclaim- 
ing his  daughter ;  and  threw  in  various  apologies  to  excuse  her 
lord  for  the  match  contracted  between  their  children.  Fred- 
erick, however  incensed  against  Manfred,  was  not  insensible  to 
the  courtesy  and  benevolence  of  Hippolita  ;  but  he  was  still  more 
struck  with  the  lovely  form  of  Matilda.  Wishing  to  detain  them 
by  his  bed-side,  he  informed  Hippolita  of  his  story.  He  told 
her,  that  while  prisoner  to  the  infidels,  he  had  dreamed  that  his 


544 


HORACE   WALPOLE 


daughter,  of  whom  he  had  learned  no  news  since  his  captivity, 
was  detained  in  a  castle,  where  she  was  in  danger  of  the  most 
dreadful  misfortunes ;  and  that  if  he  obtained  his  liberty,  and 
repaired  to  a  wood  near  Joppa,  he  would  learn  more.  Alarmed 
at  this  dream,  and  incapable  of  obeying  the  direction  given  by  it, 
his  chains  became  more  grievous  than  ever.  But  while  his 
thoughts  were  occupied  on  the  means  of  obtaining  his  liberty,  he 
received  the  agreeable  news  that  the  confederate  princes,  who 
were  warring  in  Palestine,  had  paid  his  ransom.  He  instantly 
set  out  for  the  wood  that  had  been  marked  in  his  dream.  For 
three  days  he  and  his  attendants  had  wandered  in  the  forest, 
without  seeing  a  human  form ;  but,  on  the  evening  of  the  third, 
they  came  to  a  cell,  in  which  they  found  a  venerable  hermit  in 
the  agonies  of  death.  Applying  rich  cordials,  they  brought  the 
saint-like  man  to  his  speech.  "My  sons,"  said  he,  "I  am 
bounden  to  your  charity ;  but  it  is  in  vain  —  I  am  going  to  my 
eternal  rest  —  yet  I  die  with  the  satisfaction  of  performing  the 
will  of  heaven.  When  first  I  repaired  to  this  solitude,  after 
seeing  my  country  become  a  prey  to  unbelievers  —  it  is,  alas  ! 
above  fifty  years  since  I  was  witness  to  that  dreadful  scene  —  St, 
Nicholas  appeared  to  me,  and  revealed  a  secret,  which  he  bade 
me  never  disclose  to  mortal  man  but  on  my  death-bed.  This  is 
that  tremendous  hour  and  ye  are  no  doubt  the  chosen  warriors 
to  whom  I  was  ordered  to  reveal  my  trust.  As  soon  as  ye  have 
done  the  last  offices  to  this  wretched  corse,  dig  under  the  seventh 

tree  on  the  left  hand  of  this  poor  cave,  and  your  pains  will 

Oh!  good  heaven,  receive  my  soul!"  With  those  words,  the 
devout  man  breathed  his  last. 

"By  the  break  of  day,"  continued  Frederick,  "when  we  had 
committed  the  holy  relics  to  earth,  we  dug  according  to  direction ; 
but  what  was  our  astonishment  when,  about  the  depth  of  six 
feet,  we  discovered  an  enormous  sabre  —  the  very  weapon  yonder 
in  the  court.  On  the  blade,  which  was  then  partly  out  of  the 
scabbard,  though  since  closed  by  our  efforts  in  removing  it,  were 

written  the  following  lines no ;   excuse  me,  madam,"  added 

the  Marquis,  turning  to  Hippolita,  "if  I  forbear  to  repeat  them: 
I  respect  your  sex  and  rank,  and  would  not  be  guilty  of  offending 
your  ear  with  sounds  injurious  to  aught  that  is  dear  to  you." 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  545 

He  paused.  Hippolita  trembled.  She  did  not  doubt  but 
Frederick  was  destined  by  heaven  to  accomphsh  the  fate  that 
seemed  to  threaten  her  house.  Looking  with  anxious  fondness 
at  Matilda,  a  silent  tear  stole  down  her  cheek ;  but  recollecting 
herself,  she  said,  "Proceed,  my  lord;  heaven  does  nothing  in 
vain :  mortals  must  receive  its  divine  behests  with  lowliness 
and  submission.  It  is  our  part  to  deprecate  its  wrath,  or  bow 
to  its  decrees.  Repeat  the  sentence,  my  lord,  —  we  listen 
resigned." 

Frederick  was  grieved  that  he  had  proceeded  so  far.  The 
dignity  and  patient  firmness  of  Hippolita  penetrated  him  with 
respect ;  and  the  tender,  silent  affection  with  which  the  princess 
and  her  daughter  regarded  each  other,  melted  him  almost  to 
tears.  Yet,  apprehensive  that  his  forbearance  to  obey  would 
be  more  alarming,  he  repeated,  in  a  faltering  and  low  voice, 
the  following  lines : 

"  Where'er  a  casque  that  suits  this  sword  is  found, 
With  perils  is  thy  daughter  compassed  round. 
Alfonso's  blood  alone  can  save  the  maid, 
And  quiet  a  long-restless  prince's  shade." 

"What  is  there  in  these  lines,"  said  Theodore,  impatiently, 
"that  affects  these  princesses?  —  why  were  they  to  be  shocked 
by  a  mysterious  delicacy,  that  has  so  httle  foundation?" 

"Your  words  are  rude,  young  man,"  said  the  Marquis;  "and 
though  fortune  has  favoured  you  once " 

"My  honoured  lord,"  said  Isabella,  who  resented  Theodore's 
warmth,  which  she  perceived  was  dictated  by  his  sentiments  for 
Matilda,  "discompose  not  yourself  for  the  glosing  of  a  peasant's 
son ;  he  forgets  the  reverence  he  owes  you,  but  he  is  not  ac- 
customed — — ^" 

Hippolita,  concerned  at  the  heat  that  had  arisen,  checked 
Theodore  for  his  boldness,  but,  with  an  air  acknowledging  his 
zeal,  and,  changing  the  conversation,  demanded  of  Frederick 
where  he  had  left  her  lord  ? 

As  the  Marquis  was  going  to  reply,  they  heard  a  noise  without, 
and  rising  to  inquire  the  cause,  Manfred,  Jerome,  and  part  of 
the  troop,  who  had  met  an  imperfect  rumour  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, entered  the  chamber.     Manfred  advanced  hastily  towards 


546  HORACE  WALPOLE 

Frederick's  bed  to  condole  with  him  on  his  misfortune,  and  to 
learn  the  circumstances  of  the  combat,  when,  starting  in  an 
agony  of  terror  and  amazement,  he  cried,  "Ha  !  what  art  thou  ? 
Thou  dreadful  spectre  !    is  my  hour  come?" 

"My  dearest,  gracious  lord,"  cried  Hippolita,  clasping  him 
in  her  arms,  "what  is  it  you  see  ?  why  do  you  fix  your  eye-balls 
thus?" 

"What !"  cried  Manfred,  breathless,  "dost  thou  see  nothing, 
Hippolita  ?  is  this  ghastly  phantom  sent  to  me  alone  —  to  me, 
who  did  not  — " 

"For  mercy's  sweetest  self,  my  lord,"  said  Hippolita,  "resume 
your  soul,  command  your  reason.  There  is  none  here  but  us, 
your  friends." 

"What!  is  not  that  Alfonso  ?  "  cried  Manfred  :  "dost  thou 
not  see  him  ?  can  it  be  my  brain's  delirium  ?  " 

"This,  my  lord,"  said  Hippolita;  "this  is  Theodore,  the 
youth  that  has  been  so  unfortunate." 

"Theodore!"  said  Manfred,  mournfully,  and  striking  his 
forehead  —  "Theodore,  or  a  phantom,  he  has  unhinged  the  soul 
of  Manfred ;  but  how  comes  he  here  ?  and  how  comes  he  in 
armour?" 

"I  believe  he  went  in  search  of  Isabella,"  said  Hippolita. 

"Of  Isabella!"  said  Manfred,  relapsing  into  rage  —  "yes, 
yes,  that  is  not  doubtful  —  but  how  did  he  escape  from  the 
durance  in  which  I  left  him  ?  —  was  it  Isabella,  or  this  hypo- 
critical old  friar,  that  procured  his  enlargement?" 

"And  would  a  parent  be  criminal,  my  lord,"  said  Theodore, 
"if  he  meditated  the  deliverance  of  his  child?" 

Jerome,  amazed  to  hear  himself  in  a  manner  accused  by  his 
son,  and  without  foundation,  knew  not  what  to  think.  He 
could  not  comprehend  how  Theodore  could  have  escaped ;  how 
he  came  to  be  armed,  and  to  encounter  Frederick.  Still  he  would 
not  venture  to  ask  any  questions  that  might  tend  to  inflame 
Manfred's  wrath  against  his  son. 

Jerome's  silence  convinced  Manfred  that  he  had  contrived 
Theodore's  release.  "And  is  it  thus,  thou  ungrateful  old  man," 
said  the  prince,  addressing  himself  to  the  friar,  "that  thou 
rcpayest  mine  and  HippoHta's  bounties  ?     And  not  content  with 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  547 

traversing  my  heart's  nearest  wishes,  thou  armest  thy  bastard, 
and  bringest  him  into  my  own  castle  to  insult  me  !" 

"My  lord,"  said  Theodore,  "you  wrong  my  father  :  nor  he  nor 
I  are  capable  of  harbouring  such  a  thought  against  your  peace. 
Is  it  insolence  thus  to  surrender  myself  to  your  highness's  pleas- 
ure ?  "  added  he,  laying  his  sword  respectfully  at  Manfred's  feet. 
"Behold  my  bosom;  strike,  my  lord,  if  you  suspect  that  a  dis- 
loyal thought  is  lodged  there.  There  is  not  a  sentiment  engraven 
on  my  heart  that  does  not  venerate  you  and  yours." 

The  grace  and  fervour  with  which  Theodore  uttered  these 
words  interested  every  person  present  in  his  favour.  Even 
Manfred  was  touched  —  yet,  still  possessed  with  his  resemblance 
to  Alfonso,  his  admiration  was  dashed  with  secret  horror. 

"Rise,"  said  he;  "thy  life  is  not  my  present  purpose.  But 
tell  me  thy  history,  and  how  thou  camest  connected  with  this 
old  traitor  here." 

"My  lord,"  said  Jerome,  eagerly 

"Peace,  imposter,"  said  Manfred;  "I  will  not  have  him 
prompted." 

"My  lord,"  said  Theodore,  "I  want  no  assistance.  My  story 
is  very  brief.  I  was  carried,  at  five  years  of  age,  to  Algiers,  with 
my  mother,  who  had  been  taken  by  corsairs  from  the  coast  of 
Sicily.  She  died  of  grief  in  less  than  a  twelvemonth.  (The 
tears  gushed  from  Jerome's  eyes,  on  whose  countenance  a  thou- 
sand anxious  passions  stood  expressed.)  Before  she  died,"  con- 
tinued Theodore,  "she  bound  a  writing  about  my  arm  under  my 
garments,  which  told  me  I  was  the  son  of  the  Count  Falconara." 

"It  is  most  true,"  said  Jerome ;   "I  am  that  wretched  father." 

"Again  I  enjoin  thee  silence,"  said  Manfred;    "proceed." 

"I  remained  in  slavery,"  said  Theodore,  "until  within  these 
two  years,  when,  attending  on  my  master  in  his  cruises,  I  was 
delivered  by  a  Christian  vessel,  which  overpowered  the  pirate ; 
and  discovering  myself  to  the  captain,  he  generously  put  me  on 

shore  in  Sicily but  alas  !  instead  of  finding  a  father,  I  learned 

that  his  estate,  which  was  situated  on  the  coast,  had,  during  his 
absence,  been  laid  waste  by  the  rover  who  had  carried  my  mother 
and  me  into  captivity  —  that  his  castle  had  been  burned  to  the 
ground,  and  that  my  father  on  his  return  had  sold  what  remained, 


548  HORACE  WALPOLE 

and  was  retired  into  religion  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  but  where, 
no  man  could  inform  me.  Destitute  and  friendless,  hopeless 
almost  of  obtaining  the  transport  of  a  parent's  embrace,  I  took 
the  first  opportunity  of  setting  sail  for  Naples,  from  whence, 
within  these  six  days,  I  wandered  into  this  province,  still  sup- 
porting myself  by  the  labour  of  my  hands  ;  nor  until  yestermorn 
did  I  believe  that  Heaven  had  reserved  any  lot  for  me  but  peace 
of  mind  and  contented  poverty.  This,  my  lord,  is  Theodore's 
story.  I  am  blessed  beyond  my  hope  in  finding  a  father ;  I  am 
unfortunate  beyond  my  desert  in  having  incurred  your  high- 
ness's  displeasure." 

He  ceased.  A  murmur  of  approbation  gently  arose  from  the 
audience. 

"This  is  not  all,"  said  Frederick :  "I  am  bound  in  honour  to 
add  what  he  suppresses.  Though  he  is  modest,  I  must  be  gen- 
erous —  he  is  one  of  the  bravest  youths  on  Christian  ground.  He 
is  warm  too ;  and  from  the  short  knowledge  I  have  of  him,  I  will 
pledge  myself  for  his  veracity :  if  what  he  reports  of  himself 
were  not  true,  he  would  not  utter  it  —  and  for  me,  youth,  I 
honour  a  frankness  which  becomes  thy  birth.  But  now,  and 
thou  didst  offend  me ;  yet  the  noble  blood  which  flows  in  thy 
veins  may  well  be  allowed  to  boil  out,  when  it  has  so  recently 
traced  itself  to  its  source.  Come,  my  lord,  (turning  to  Manfred,) 
if  I  can  pardon  him,  surely  you  may.  It  is  not  the  youth's  fault 
if  you  took  him  for  a  spectre." 

This  bitter  taunt  galled  the  soul  of  Manfred.  "If  beings  from 
another  world,"  rephed  he  haughtily,  "have  power  to  impress 
my  mind  with  awe,  it  is  more  than  living  man  can  do  ;  nor  could 
a  stripling's  arm  — " 

"My  lord,"  interrupted  Hippolita,  "your  guest  has  occasion 
for  repose:  shall  we  not  leave  him  to  rest?"  Saying  this,  and 
taking  Manfred  by  the  hand,  she  took  leave  of  Frederick,  and 
led  the  company  forth. 

The  prince,  not  sorry  to  quit  a  conversation  which  recalled  to 
mind  the  discovery  he  had  made  of  his  most  secret  sensations, 
suffered  himself  to  be  conducted  to  his  own  apartment,  after 
permitting  Theodore,  though  under  engagement  to  return  to 
the  castle  on  the  morrow  (a  condition  the  young  man  gladly 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  549 

accepted)  to  retire  with  his  father  to  the  convent.  Matilda  and 
Isabella  were  too  much  occupied  with  their  own  reflections,  and 
too  little  content  with  each  other,  to  wish  for  farther  converse 
that  night.  They  separated,  each  to  her  chamber,  with  more 
expressions  of  ceremony  and  fewer  of  affection  than  had  passed 
between  them  since  their  childhood. 

If  they  parted  with  small  cordiality,  they  did  but  meet  with 
greater  impatience  as  soon  as  the  sun  was  risen.  Their  minds 
were  in  a  situation  that  excluded  sleep,  and  each  recollected  a 
thousand  questions  which  she  wished  she  had  put  to  the  other 
over  night.  Matilda  reflected  that  Isabella  had  been  twice 
delivered  by  Theodore  in  very  critical  situations,  which  she 
could  not  believe  accidental.  His  eyes,  it  was  true,  had  been 
fixed  on  her  in  Frederick's  chamber ;  but  that  might  have  been 
to  disguise  his  passion  for  Isabella  from  the  fathers  of  both.  It 
were  better  to  clear  this  up.  She  wished  to  know  the  truth,  lest 
she  should  wrong  her  friend  by  entertaining  a  passion  for  Isa- 
bella's lover.  Thus  jealousy  prompted,  and  at  the  same  time 
borrowed  an  excuse  from  friendship  to  justify  its  curiosity. 

Isabella,  not  less  restless,  had  better  foundation  for  her  sus- 
picions. Both  Theodore's  tongue  and  eyes  had  told  her  his 
heart  was  engaged,  it  was  true  —  yet  perhaps  Matilda  might 
not  correspond  to  his  passion  —  she  had  ever  appeared  insensible 
to  love :  all  her  thoughts  were  set  on  heaven. 

"Why  did  I  dissuade  her?"  said  Isabella  to  herself:  "I  am 
punished  for  my  generosity  —  but  when  did  they  meet  ?  where 
—  it  cannot  be :  I  have  deceived  myself  —  perhaps  last  night 
was  the  first  time  they  ever  beheld  each  other  —  it  must  be  some 
other  object  that  has  prepossessed  his  affections  —  if  it  is,  I  am 
not  so  unhappy  as  I  thought,  if  it  is  not  my  friend  Matilda  — 
how  !  can  I  stoop  to  wish  for  the  affection  of  a  man  who  rudely 
and  unnecessarily  acquainted  me  with  his  indifference  ?  and 
that  at  the  very  moment  in  which  common  courtesy  demanded 
at  least  expressions  of  civihty.  I  will  go  to  my  dear  Matilda, 
who  will  confirm  me  in  this  becoming  pride.  Man  is  false  —  I 
will  advise  with  her  on  taking  the  veil :  she  will  rejoice  to  find 
me  in  this  disposition ;  and  I  will  acquaint  her  that  I  no  longer 
oppose  her  inclination  for  the  cloister." 


550  HORACE   WALPOLE 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  and  determined  to  open  her  heart  en- 
tirely to  Matilda,  she  went  to  that  princess's  chamber,  whom  she 
found  already  dressed,  and  leaning  pensively  on  her  arm.  This 
attitude,  so  correspondent  to  what  she  felt  herself,  revived  Isa- 
bella's suspicions,  and  destroyed  the  confidence  she  had  pur- 
posed to  place  in  her  friend.  They  blushed  at  meeting,  and 
were  too  much  novices  to  disguise  their  sensations  with  address. 
After  some  unmeaning  questions  and  replies,  Matilda  demanded 
of  Isabella  the  cause  of  her  flight  ?  The  latter,  who  had  almost 
forgotten  Manfred's  passion,  so  entirely  was  she  occupied  by  her 
own,  concluding  that  Matilda  referred  to  her  last  escape  from 
the  convent,  which  had  occasioned  the  events  of  the  preceding 
evening,  repHed,  "Martelli  brought  word  to  the  convent  that 
your  mother  was  dead." 

"Oh  !"  said  Matilda,  interrupting  her,  "Bianca  has  explained 
that  mistake  to  me  :  on  seeing  me  faint  she  cried  out,  '  The  prin- 
cess is  dead, '  and  Martelli,  who  had  come  for  the  usual  dole  to 
the  castle  — " 

''And  what  made  you  faint?"  said  Isabella,  indifferent  to 
the  rest. 

Matilda  blushed  and  stammered:  "My  father  —  he  was 
sitting  in  judgment  on  a  criminal." 

"What  criminal?"  said  Isabella,  eagerly. 

"A  young  man,"  said  Matilda;  "I  believe  —  I  think  it  was 
that  young  man  that  — " 

"What,  Theodore?"  said  Isabella. 

"Yes,"  answered  she;  "I  never  saw  him  before;  I  do  not 
know  how  he  had  offended  my  father  —  but  as  he  has  been  of 
service  to  you,  I  am  glad  my  lord  has  pardoned  him." 

"Served  me  !"  repHed  Isabella ;  "do  you  term  it  serving  me, 
to  wound  my  father  and  almost  occasion  his  death  ?  Though  it 
is  but  since  yesterday  I  am  blessed  with  knowing  a  parent,  I  hope 
Matilda  does  not  think  I  am  such  a  stranger  to  filial  tenderness 
as  not  to  resent  the  boldness  of  that  audacious  youth,  and  that 
it  is  impossible  for  me  ever  to  feel  any  affection  for  one  who 
dared  to  Hft  his  arm  against  the  author  of  my  being.  No, 
Matilda,  my  heart  abhors  him  ;  and  if  you  still  retain  the  friend- 
ship for  me  that  you  have  vowed  from  your  infancy,  you  will 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  551 

detest  a  man  who  has  been  on  the  point  of  making  me  miserable 
for  ever." 

Matilda  held  down  her  head,  and  replied,  "I  hope  my  dearest 
Isabella  does  not  doubt  her  Matilda's  friendship :  I  never  beheld 
that  youth  until  yesterday,  he  is  almost  a  stranger  to  me :  but 
as  the  surgeons  have  pronounced  your  father  out  of  danger,  you 
ought  not  to  harbour  uncharitable  resentment  against  one, 
who  I  am  persuaded  did  not  know  the  Marquis  was  related 
to  you." 

"You  plead  his  cause  very  pathetically,"  said  Isabella,  "con- 
sidering he  is  so  much  a  stranger  to  you  !  I  am  mistaken,  or  he 
returns  your  charity." 

"What  mean  you  ?"  said  Matilda. 

"Nothing,"  said  Isabella,  repenting  that  she  had  given  Ma- 
tilda a  hint  of  Theodore's  inclination  for  her. 

Then  changing  the  discourse,  she  asked  Matilda  what  occa- 
sioned Manfred  to  take  Theodore  for  a  spectre  ? 

"Bless  me,"  said  Matilda,  "did  not  you  observe  his  extreme 
resemblance  to  the  portrait  of  Alfonso  in  the  gallery  ?  I  took 
notice  of  it  to  Bianca  even  before  I  saw  him  in  armour  :  but  with 
the  helmet  on,  he  is  the  very  image  of  that  picture." 

"I  do  not  much  observe  pictures,"  said  Isabella :  "much  less 
have  I  examined  this  young  man  so  attentively  as  you  seem  to 
have  done.  Ah  !  Matilda,  your  heart  is  in  danger ;  but  let 
me  warn  you  as  a  friend  —  he  has  owned  to  me  that  he  is  in 
love;  it  cannot  be  with  you,  for  yesterday  was  the  first  time 
you  ever  met  —  was  it  not  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  rephed  Matilda;  "but  why  does  my  dearest 
Isabella  conclude  from  anything  I  have  said,  that  —  (she  paused 
—  then  continuing  ;)  he  saw  you  first,  and  I  am  far  from  having 
the  vanity  to  think  that  my  Uttle  portion  of  charms  could  engage 
a  heart  devoted  to  you.  May  you  be  happy,  Isabella,  whatever 
is  the  fate  of  Matilda  !" 

"My  lovely  friend,"  said  Isabella,  whose  heart  was  too  honest 
to  resist  a  kind  expression,  "it  is  you  that  Theodore  admires: 
I  saw  it ;  I  am  persuaded  of  it ;  nor  shall  a  thought  of  my  own 
happiness  suffer  me  to  interfere  with  yours." 

This   frankness   drew   tears  from   the  gentle   Matilda ;    and 


552  HORACE  WALPOLE 

jealousy,  that  for  a  moment  had  raised  a  coolness  between  these 
amiable  maidens,  soon  gave  way  to  the  natural  sincerity  and 
candour  of  their  souls.  Each  confessed  to  the  other  the  impres- 
sion Theodore  had  made  on  her ;  and  this  confidence  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  struggle  of  generosity,  each  insisting  on  yielding  her 
claim  to  her  friend.  At  length  the  dignity  of  Isabella's  virtue, 
reminding  her  of  the  preference  which  Theodore  had  almost 
declared  for  her  rival,  made  her  determine  to  conquer  her  passion, 
and  cede  the  beloved  object  to  her  friend. 

During  this  contest  of  amity,  Hippolita  entered  her  daughter's 
chamber.  "Madam,"  said  she  to  Isabella,  "you  have  so  much 
tenderness  for  Matilda,  and  interest  yourself  so  kindly  in  what- 
ever affects  our  wretched  house,  that  I  can  have  no  secrets  with 
my  child,  which  are  not  proper  for  you  to  hear."  The  princesses 
were  all  attention  and  anxiety.  "Know  then,  madam,"  con- 
tinued Hippolita,  "and  you  my  dearest  Matilda,  that  being 
convinced  by  all  the  events  of  these  two  last  ominous  days,  that 
Heaven  purposes  the  sceptre  of  Otranto  should  pass  from  Man- 
fred's hands  into  those  of  the  Marquis  Frederick,  I  have  been, 
perhaps,  inspired  with  the  thought  of  averting  our  total  destruc- 
tion by  the  union  of  our  rival  houses.  With  this  view  I  have 
been  proposing  to  Manfred,  my  lord,  to  tender  this  dear,  dear 
child  to  Frederick  your  father." 

"Me  to  Lord  Frederick!"  cried  Matilda  —  "good  heavens! 
my  gracious  mother  —  and  have  you  named  it  to  my  father?" 

"I  have,"  said  Hippolita:  "he  listened  benignly  to  my  pro- 
posal, and  is  gone  to  break  it  to  the  Marquis." 

"Ah!  wretched  princess  ! "  cried  Isabella  ;  "what  hast  thou 
done  ?  what  ruin  has  thy  inadvertent  goodness  been  preparing 
for  thyself,  for  me,  and  for  Matilda?" 

"Ruin  from  me  to  you  and  to  my  child!"  said  Hippolita; 
"what  can  this  mean  ?" 

"Alas  !"  said  Isabella,  "the  purity  of  your  own  heart  prevents 
your  seeing  the  depravity  of  others.  Manfred,  your  lord,  that 
impious  man " 

"Hold,"  said  Hippolita  :  "you  must  not,  in  my  presence,  young 
lady,  mention  Manfred  with  disrespect :  he  is  my  lord  and  hus- 
band, and " 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  553 

"Will  not  long  be  so,"  said  Isabella,  "if  his  wicked  purposes 
can  be  carried  into  execution." 

"This  language  amazes  me  !"  said  Hippolita.  "Your  feeling, 
Isabella,  is  warm :  but  until  this  hour  I  never  knew  it  betray 
you  into  intemperance.  What  deed  of  Manfred  authorises  you 
to  treat  him  as  a  murderer,  an  assassin  ?" 

"Thou  virtuous  and  too  credulous  princess  ! "  replied  Isabella  ; 
"  it  is  not  thy  life  he  aims  at  —  it  is  to  separate  himself  from  thee ! 
to  divorce  thee  !   to " 

"To  divorce  me  !  —  to  divorce  my  mother  ! "  cried  Hippolita 
and  Matilda  at  once. 

"Yes,"  said  Isabella;  "and  to  complete  his  crime  he  medi- 
tates —  I  cannot  speak  it !" 

"What  can  surpass  what  thou  hast  already  uttered?"  said 
Matilda. 

Hippolita  was  silent.  Grief  choked  her  speech ;  and  the 
recollection  of  Manfred's  late  ambiguous  discourses  confirmed 
what  she  heard. 

"Excellent,  dear  lady!  Madam!  Mother!"  cried  Isabella, 
flinging  herself  at  Hippolita's  feet  in  a  transport  of  passion ; 
"trust  me,  believe  me,  I  will  die  a  thousand  deaths  sooner  than 
consent  to  injure  you,  than  yield  to  so  odious  —  oh  !  — " 

"This  is  too  much  !"  cried  Hippolita  :  "What  crimes  does  one 
crime  suggest  ?  Rise,  dear  Isabella  ;  I  do  not  doubt  your  virtue. 
Oh  !  Matilda,  this  stroke  is  too  heavy  for  thee  !  weep  not,  my 
child ;  and  not  a  murmur,  I  charge  thee.  Remember  he  is  thy 
father  still ! " 

"But  you  are  my  mother  too,"  said  Matilda  fervently ;  "and 
you  are  virtuous,  you  are  guiltless  !  Oh  !  must  not  I,  must  not 
I  complain  !" 

"You  must  not,"  said  Hippohta ;  "come,  all  will  yet  be  well. 
Manfred,  in  the  agony  for  the  loss  of  thy  brother,  knew  not  what 
he  said  :  perhaps  Isabella  misunderstood  him  :  his  heart  is  good 

—  and,  my  child,  thou  knowest  not  all !  There  is  a  destiny 
hangs  over  us ;  the  hand  of  Providence  is  stretched  out.  Oh  ! 
could  I  but  save  thee  from  the  wreck  !  Yes,"  continued  she,  in 
a  firmer  tone ;   "perhaps  the  sacrifice  of  myself  may  atone  for  all 

—  I  will  go  and  offer  myself  to  this  divorce  —  it  boots  not  what 


554  HORACE   WALPOLE 

becomes  of  me.  I  will  withdraw  into  the  neighbouring  mon- 
astery, and  waste  the  remainder  of  my  life  in  prayers  and  tears 
for  my  child  and  —  the  prince  !" 

"Thou  art  as  much  too  good  for  this  world,"  said  Isabella, 
"as  Manfred  is  execrable  —  but  think  not,  lady,  that  thy  weak- 
ness shall  determine  for  me.     I  swear,  hear  me  all  ye  angels " 

"Stop,  I  adjure  thee,"  cried  Hippolita  :  "remember  that  thou 
dost  not  depend  on  thyself;    thou  hast  a  father." 

"My  father  is  too  pious,  too  noble,"  interrupted  Isabella, 
"to  command  an  impious  deed.  But  should  he  command  it? 
—  can  a  father  enjoin  a  cursed  act  ?  I  was  contracted  to  the 
son,  —  can  I  wed  the  father?  No,  madam,  no;  force  should 
not  drag  me  to  Manfred's  hated  bed.  I  loathe  him,  I  abhor  him  : 
divine  and  human  laws  forbid  —  and  my  friend,  my  dearest 
Matilda  !  would  I  wound  her  tender  soul  by  injuring  her  adored 
mother?  my  own  mother  —  I  never  have  known  another." 

"Oh  !  she  is  the  mother  of  both,"  cried  Matilda:  "Can  we, 
can  we,  Isabella,  adore  her  too  much  ?" 

"My  lovely  children,"  said  the  touched  HippoHta,  "your 
tenderness  overpowers  me  —  but  I  must  not  give  way  to  it. 
It  is  not  ours  to  make  election  for  ourselves :  Heaven,  our  fathers, 
and  our  husbands  must  decide  for  us.  Have  patience  until  you 
hear  what  Manfred  and  Frederick  have  determined.  If  the 
Marquis  accepts  Matilda's  hand,  I  know  she  will  readily  obey. 
Heaven  may  interpose  and  prevent  the  rest.  What  means  my 
child  ?  "  continued  she,  seeing  Matilda  fall  at  her  feet  with  a  flood 
of  speechless  tears.  "But  no  ;  answer  me  not,  my  daughter  :  I 
must  not  hear  a  word  against  the  pleasure  of  thy  father." 

"Oh!  doubt  not  my  obedience, — my  dreadful  obedience 
to  him  and  to  you  !"  said  Matilda.  "But  can  I,  most  respected 
of  women,  can  I  experience  all  this  tenderness,  this  world  of 
goodness,  and  conceal  a  thought  from  the  best  of  mothers?" 

"What  art  thou  going  to  utter?"  said  Isabella,  trembling. 
"Recollect  thyself,  Matilda." 

"No,  Isabella,"  said  the  princess,  "I  should  not  deserve  this 
incomparable  parent,  if  the  inmost  recesses  of  my  soul  harboured 
a  thought  without  her  permission  —  nay,  I  have  ofl"cnded  her ; 
I    have    suffered    a    passion    to   enter  my    heart    without   her 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  555 

avowal  —  but  here  I  disclaim  it ;  here  I  avow  to  Heaven  and 
her—" 

"My  child!  my  child!"  said  Hippolita,  "what  words  are 
these  !  what  new  calamities  has  fate  in  store  for  us  !  Thou  a 
passion  !     Thou,  in  this  hour  of  destruction." 

"Oh  !  I  see  all  my  guilt !"  said  Matilda.  "I  abhor  myself, 
if  I  cost  my  mother  a  pang.  She  is  the  dearest  thing  I  have  on 
earth  —  oh  !    I  will  never,  never  behold  him  more  !" 

"Isabella,"  said  Hippolita,  "  thou  art  conscious  to  this  unhappy 
secret,  whatever  it  is.     Speak  ! " 

"What,"  cried  Matilda,  "have  I  so  forfeited  my  mother's 
love  that  she  will  not  permit  me  even  to  speak  my  own  guilt  ?  — 
oh  !  wretched,  wretched  Matilda  !" 

"Thou  art  too  cruel,"  said  Isabella  to  HippoHta :  "canst  thou 
behold  this  anguish  of  a  virtuous  mind,  and  not  commiserate  it  ?  " 

"Not  pity  my  child!"  said  Hippohta,  catching  Matilda 
in  her  arms  —  "Oh!  I  know  she  is  good,  —  she  is  all  virtue, 
all  tenderness  and  duty.  I  do  forgive  thee,  my  excellent,  my 
only  hope  !" 

The  princesses  then  revealed  to  Hippolita  their  mutual  in- 
clination for  Theodore,  and  the  purpose  of  Isabella  to  resign  him 
to  Matilda.  Hippolita  blamed  their  imprudence,  and  showed 
them  the  improbabihty  that  either  father  would  consent  to  be- 
stow his  heiress  on  so  poor  a  man,  though  nobly  born.  Some 
comfort  it  gave  her  to  find  their  passion  of  so  recent  a  date,  and 
that  Theodore  had  had  but  Httle  cause  to  suspect  it  in  either. 
She  strictly  enjoined  them  to  avoid  all  correspondence  with  him. 
This  Matilda  fervently  promised ;  but  Isabella,  who  flattered 
herself  that  she  meant  no  more  than  to  promote  his  union  with 
her  friend,  could  not  determine  to  avoid  him,  and  made  no  reply. 

"I  will  go  to  the  convent,"  said  HippoHta,  "and  order  new 
masses  to  be  said  for  a  deliverance  from  these  calamities." 

"Oh  !  my  mother,"  said  Matilda,  "you  mean  to  quit  us  :  you 
mean  to  take  sanctuary,  and  to  give  my  father  an  opportunity 
of  pursuing  his  fatal  intention.  Alas  !  on  my  knees  I  supplicate 
you  to  forbear  !  Will  you  leave  me  a  prey  to  Frederick  ?  I  will 
follow  you  to  the  convent." 

"Be  at  peace,  my  child,"  said  Hippolita;    "I  will  return  in- 


556  HORACE   WALPOLE 

stantly.  I  will  never  abandon  thee,  until  I  know  it  is  the  will 
of  Heaven,  and  for  thy  benefit." 

"Do  not  deceive  me,"  said  Matilda.  "I  will  not  marry  Fred- 
erick until  thou  commandest  it.  Alas  !  what  will  become  of 
me?" 

''Why  that  exclamation  ?  "  said  Hippolita.  "  I  have  promised 
thee  to  return." 

"Ah  !  my  mother,"  replied  Matilda,  "stay  and  save  me  from 
myself.  A  frown  from  thee  can  do  more  than  all  my  father's 
severity.  I  have  given  away  my  heart,  and  you  alone  can  make 
me  recall  it." 

"No  more,"  said  Hippolita  :  "  thou  must  not  relapse,  Matilda." 

"I  can  quit  Theodore,"  said  she,  "but  must  I  wed  another? 
Let  me  attend  thee  to  the  altar,  and  shut  thyself  from  the  world 
for  ever." 

"Thy  fate  depends  on  thy  father,"  said  Hippolita:  "I  have 
ill  bestowed  my  tenderness,  if  it  has  taught  thee  to  revere  aught 
beyond  him.     Adieu  !   my  child  :   I  go  to  pray  for  thee." 

Hippolita's  real  purpose  was  to  demand  of  Jerome,  whether 
in  conscience  she  might  not  consent  to  the  divorce.  She  had  oft 
urged  Manfred  to  resign  the  principality,  which  the  delicacy  of 
her  conscience  rendered  an  hourly  burden  to  her.  These  scruples 
concurred  to  make  the  separation  from  her  husband  appear  less 
dreadful  to  her,  than  it  would  have  seemed  in  any  other  situation. 

Jerome,  at  quitting  the  castle  overnight,  had  questioned 
Theodore  severely  why  he  had  accused  him  to  Manfred  of  being 
privy  to  his  escape.  Theodore  owned  it  had  been  with  design 
to  prevent  Manfred's  suspicion  from  alighting  on  Matilda ;  and 
added,  the  holiness  of  Jerome's  life  and  character  secured  him 
from  the  tyrant's  wrath.  Jerome  was  heartily  grieved  to  dis- 
cover his  son's  inclination  for  that  princess :  and  leaving  him  to 
his  rest,  promised  in  the  morning  to  acquaint  him  with  important 
reasons  for  conquering  his  passion.  Theodore,  like  Isabella, 
was  too  recently  acquainted  with  parental  authority  to  submit 
to  its  decisions  against  the  impulse  of  his  heart.  He  had  little 
curiosity  to  learn  the  friar's  reasons,  and  less  disposition  to  obey 
them.  The  lovely  Matilda  had  made  stronger  impressions  on 
him  than  filial  affection.     All  night  he  pleased  himself  with  visions 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  557 

of  love ;  and  it  was  not  till  late  after  the  morning  office,  that  he 
recollected  the  friar's  commands  to  attend  him  at  Alfonso's 
tomb. 

''Young  man,"  said  Jerome,  when  he  saw  him,  "this  tardiness 
does  not  please  me.  Have  a  father's  commands  already  so  little 
weight?" 

Theodore  made  awkward  excuses,  and  attributed  his  delay  to 
having  overslept  himself. 

"And  on  whom  were  thy  dreams  employed?"  said  the  friar, 
sternly. 

His  son  blushed. 

"Come,  come,"  resumed  the  friar,  "inconsiderate  youth, 
this  must  not  be  ;  eradicate  this  guilty  passion  from  thy  breast." 

"Guilty  passion!"  cried  Theodore.  "Can  guilt  dwell  with 
innocent  beauty,  and  virtuous  modesty?" 

"It  is  sinful,"  replied  the  friar,  "  to  cherish  those  whom  Heaven 
has  doomed  to  destruction.  A  tyrant's  race  must  be  swept  from 
the  earth  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation." 

"Will  Heaven  visit  the  innocent  for  the  crimes  of  the  guilty  ?" 
said  Theodore.     "The  fair  Matilda  has  virtues  enough " 

"To  undo  thee,"  interrupted  Jerome.  "Hast  thou  so  soon 
forgotten  that  twice  the  savage  Manfred  has  pronounced  thy 
sentence?" 

"Nor  have  I  forgotten,  sir,"  said  Theodore,  "that  the  charity 
of  his  daughter  delivered  me  from  his  power.  I  can  forget  in- 
juries, but  never  benefits." 

"The  injuries  thou  hast  received  from  Manfred's  race,"  said 
the  friar,  "are  beyond  what  thou  canst  conceive.  Reply  not, 
but  view  this  holy  image  !  Beneath  this  marble  monument  rest 
the  ashes  of  the  good  Alfonso  —  a  prince  adorned  with  every 
virtue  !  —  the  father  of  his  people  !  —  the  delight  of  mankind  ! 
Kneel,  headstrong  boy,  and  list  while  a  father  unfolds  a  tale  of 
horror,  that  will  expel  every  sentiment  from  thy  soul  but  sensa- 
tions of  sacred  vengeance.  Alfonso  !  much  injured  prince  !  let 
thy  unsatisfied  shade  sit  awful  on  the  troubled  air,  while  these 
trembhng  hps Ha  !   who  comes  there  ?  " 

"The  most  wretched  of  women,"  said  Hippolita,  entering  the 
choir.     "  Good  father,  art  thou  at  leisure  ?     But  why  this  kneel- 


558  HORACE   WALPOLE 

ing  youth  ?  —  what  means  the  horror  imprinted  on  each  coun- 
tenance ?  —  why  at  this  venerable  tomb  —  alas  !  hast  thou  seen 
aught?" 

"We  were  pouring  forth  our  orisons  to  Heaven,"  replied  the 
friar,  with  some  confusion,  "to  put  an  end  to  the  woes  of  this 
deplorable  province.  Join  with  us,  lady  !  thy  spotless  soul  may 
obtain  an  exemption  from  the  judgments  which  the  porterrts  of 
these  days  but  too  speakingly  denounce  against  thy  house." 

"I  pray  fervently  to  Heaven  to  divert  them,"  said  the  pious 
princess.  "Thou  knowest  it  has  been  the  occupation  of  my  life 
to  wrest  a  blessing  for  my  lord  and  my  harmless  children.  One, 
alas  !  is  taken  from  me  ;  would  Heaven  but  hear  me  for  my  poor 
Matilda  !     Father  !  intercede  for  her." 

"Every  heart  will  bless  her,"  cried  Theodore,  with  rapture. 

"Be  dumb,  rash  youth,"  said  Jerome.  "And  thou,  fond 
princess,  contend  not  with  the  powers  above  !  the  Lord  giveth 
and  the  Lord  taketh  away :  bless  his  holy  name,  and  submit  to 
his  decrees." 

"I  do,  most  devoutly,"  said  Hippolita  :  "but  will  he  not  spare 
my  only  comfort  ?  —  must  Matilda  perish  too  ?  Ah  !  father, 
I  came  —  but  dismiss  thy  son.  No  ear  but  thine  must  hear 
what  I  have  to  utter." 

"May  Heaven  grant  thy  every  wish,  most  excellent  princess  !" 
said  Theodore,  retiring.     Jerome  frowned. 

Hippolita  then  acquainted  the  friar  with  the  proposal  she  had 
suggested  to  Manfred,  his  approbation  of  it,  and  the  tender  of 
Matilda  that  he  was  gone  to  make  to  Frederick.  Jerome  could 
not  conceal  his  dislike  of  the  motion,  which  he  covered  under 
pretence  of  the  impossibility  that  Frederick,  the  nearest  of  blood 
to  Alfonso,  and  who  was  come  to  claim  his  succession,  would 
yield  to  an  alliance  with  the  usurper  of  his  right.  But  nothing 
could  equal  the  perplexity  of  the  friar,  when  Hippolita  confessed 
her  readiness  not  to  oppose  the  separation,  and  demanded  his 
opinion  on  the  legality  of  her  acquiescence.  The  friar  catched 
eagerly  at  her  request  of  his  advice ;  and,  without  explaining  his 
aversion  to  the  proposed  marriage  of  Manfred  and  Isabella,  he 
painted  to  Hippolita,  in  the  most  alarming  colours,  the  sinfulness 
of  her  consent,  denounced  judgments  against  her  if  she  complied, 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  559 

and  enjoined  her  in  the  severest  terms  to  treat  any  such  proposi- 
tion with  every  mark  of  indignation  and  refusal. 

Manfred,  in  the  meantime,  had  broken  his  purpose  to  Fred- 
erick, and  proposed  the  double  marriage.  That  weak  prince, 
who  had  been  struck  with  the  charms  of  Matilda,  listened  but  too 
eagerly  to  the  offer.  He  forgot  his  enmity  to  Manfred,  whom  he 
saw  but  little  hope  of  dispossessing  by  force  ;  and  flattering  him- 
self that  no  issue  might  succeed  from  the  union  of  his  daughter 
with  the  tyrant,  he  looked  upon  his  own  succession  to  the  prin- 
cipality as  facilitated  by  wedding  Matilda.  He  made  faint 
opposition  to  the  proposal ;  affecting,  for  form  only,  not  to  ac- 
quiesce unless  Hippolita  should  consent  to  the  divorce.  Manfred 
took  that  upon  himself.  Transported  with  his  success,  and 
impatient  to  see  himself  in  a  situation  to  expect  sons,  he  hastened 
to  his  wife's  apartment,  determined  to  extort  her  compliance. 
He  learned  with  indignation  that  she  was  absent  at  the  convent. 
His  guilt  suggested  to  him  that  she  had  probably  been  informed 
by  Isabella  of  his  purpose.  He  doubted  whether  retirement 
to  the  convent  did  not  import  an  intention  of  remaining  there, 
until  she  could  raise  obstacles  to  their  divorce ;  and  the  sus- 
picions he  had  already  entertained  of  Jerome,  made  him  appre- 
hend that  the  friar  would  not  only  traverse  his  views,  but  might 
have  inspired  Hippolita  with  the  resolution  of  taking  sanctuary. 
Impatient  to  unravel  this  clue,  and  to  defeat  its  success,  Manfred 
hastened  to  the  convent,  and  arrived  there  as  the  friar  was  ear- 
nestly exhorting  the  princess  never  to  yield  to  the  divorce. 

''Madam,"  said  Manfred,  "what  business  drew  you  hither? 
why  did  not  you  await  my  return  from  the  Marquis  ?" 

"I  came  to  implore  a  blessing  on  your  councils,"  replied 
Hippolita. 

"My  councils  do  not  need  a  friar's  intervention,"  said  Man- 
fred; "and  of  all  men  living,  is  that  hoary  traitor  the  only  one 
you  delight  to  confer  with?" 

"Profane  prince  !"  said  Jerome ;  "is  it  at  the  altar  that  thou 
choosest  to  insult  the  servants  of  the  altar  ?  —  but,  Manfred, 
thy  impious  schemes  are  known.  Heaven  and  this  virtuous 
lady  know  them  —  nay,  frown  not,  prince.  The  church  despises 
thy  menaces.     Her  thunders  will  be  heard  above  thy  wrath. 


560  HORACE   WALPOLE 

Dare  to  proceed  in  thy  cursed  purpose  of  a  divorce,  until  her 
sentence  be  known,  and  here  I  lance  her  anathema  at  thy  head." 

"Audacious  rebel!"  said  Manfred,  endeavouring  to  conceal 
the  awe  with  which  the  friar's  words  inspired  him ;  "dost  thou 
presume  to  threaten  thy  lawful  prince?" 

"Thou  art  no  lawful  prince,"  said  Jerome;  "thou  art  no 
prince.  Go,  discuss  thy  claim  with  Frederick;  and  when  that 
is  done " 

"It  is  done,"  replied  Manfred:  "Frederick  accepts  Matilda's 
hand,  and  is  content  to  waive  his  claim,  unless  I  have  no  male 
issue." 

As  he  spoke  those  words,  three  drops  of  blood  fell  from  the 
nose  of  Alfonso's  statue.  Manfred  turned  pale,  and  the  princess 
sank  on  her  knees  : 

"Behold  !"  said  the  friar:  "mark  this  miraculous  indication 
that  the  blood  of  Alfonso  will  never  mix  with  that  of  Manfred  !" 

"My  gracious  lord,"  said  Hippolita,  "let  us  submit  ourselves 
to  Heaven.  Think  not  thy  ever-obedient  wife  rebels  against 
thy  authority.  I  have  no  will  but  that  of  my  lord  and  the  church. 
To  that  revered  tribunal  let  us  appeal.  It  does  not  depend  on  us 
to  burst  the  bonds  that  unite  us.  If  the  church  shall  approve 
the  dissolution  of  our  marriage  be  it  so.  I  have  but  few  years, 
and  those  of  sorrow,  to  pass.  Where  can  they  be  worn  away  so 
well  as  at  the  foot  of  this  altar,  in  prayers  for  thine  and  Matilda's 
safety?" 

"But  thou  shalt  not  remain  here  until  then,"  said  Manfred. 
"Repair  with  me  to  the  castle,  and  there  I  will  advise  on  the 
proper  measures  for  a  divorce ;  but  this  meddling  friar  comes  not 
thither ;  my  hospitable  roof  shall  never  more  harbour  a  traitor 
- —  and  for  thy  reverence's  offspring,"  continued  he,  "I  banish  him 
from  my  dominions.  He,  I  ween,  is  no  sacred  personage,  nor 
under  the  protection  of  the  church.  Whoever  weds  Isabella,  it 
shall  not  be  Father  Falconara's  start-up  son." 

"They  start  up,"  said  the  friar,  "who  are  suddenly  beheld  in 
the  seat  of  lawful  princes ;  but  they  wither  away  like  the  grass, 
and  their  place  knows  them  no  more." 

Manfred,  casting  a  look  of  scorn  at  the  friar,  led  Hippolita 
forth ;    but,  at  the  door  of  the  church,  whispered  one  of  his  at- 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  561 

tendants  to  remain  concealed  about  the  convent,  and  bring  him 
instant  notice,  if  any  one  from  the  castle  should  repair  thither. 


CHAPTER   V 

Every  reflection  which  Manfred  made  on  the  friar's  behaviour 
conspired  to  persuade  him  that  Jerome  was  privy  to  an  amour 
between  Isabella  and  Theodore.  But  Jerome's  new  presumption, 
so  dissonant  from  his  former  meekness,  suggested  still  deeper 
apprehensions.  The  prince  even  suspected  that  the  friar  de- 
pended on  some  secret  support  from  Frederick,  whose  arrival, 
coinciding  with  the  novel  appearance  of  Theodore,  seemed  to 
bespeak  a  correspondence.  Still  more  was  he  troubled  with  the 
resemblance  of  Theodore  to  Alfonso's  portrait.  The  latter  he 
knew  had  unquestionably  died  without  issue,  Frederick  had 
consented  to  bestow  Isabella  on  him.  These  contradictions 
agitated  his  mind  with  numberless  pangs.  He  saw  but  two 
methods  of  extricating  himself  from  his  difficulties.  The  one 
was  to  resign  his  dominions  to  the  Marquis.  Pride,  ambition, 
and  his  reliance  on  ancient  prophecies,  which  had  pointed  out  a 
possibility  of  preserving  them  to  his  posterity,  combatted  that 
thought.  The  other  was  to  press  his  marriage  with  Isabella. 
After  long  ruminating  on  these  anxious  thoughts,  as  he  marched 
silently  with  Hippolita  to  the  castle,  he  at  last  discoursed  with 
that  princess  on  the  subject  of  his  disquiet,  and  used  every  in- 
sinuating and  plausible  argument  to  extract  her  consent  to,  even 
her  promise  of  promoting,  the  divorce.  Hippolita  needed  little 
persuasion  to  bend  her  to  his  pleasure.  She  endeavoured  to  win 
him  over  to  the  measure  of  resigning  his  dominions ;  but,  finding 
her  exhortations  fruitless,  she  assured  him,  that,  as  far  as  her 
conscience  would  allow,  she  would  raise  no  opposition  to  a  sepa- 
ration ;  though,  without  better-founded  scruples  than  what  he 
yet  alleged,  she  would  not  engage  to  be  active  in  demanding  it. 

This  compliance,  though  inadequate,  was  sufficient  to  raise 
Manfred's  hopes.  He  trusted  that  his  power  and  wealth  would 
easily  advance  his  suit  at  the  court  of  Rome,  whither  he  resolved 
to  engage  Frederick  to  take  a  journey  on  purpose.  That  prince 
had  discovered  so  much  passion  for  Matilda,  that  Manfred  hoped 


562  HORACE   WALPOLE 

to  obtain  all  he  wished  by  holding  out  or  withdrawing  his  daugh- 
ter's charms,  according  as  the  Marquis  should  appear  more  or 
less  disposed  to  cooperate  in  his  views.  Even  the  absence  of 
Frederick  would  be  a  material  point  gained,  until  he  could  take 
farther  measures  for  his  security. 

Dismissing  Hippolita  to  her  apartment,  he  repaired  to  that  of 
the  Marquis ;  but  crossing  the  great  hall,  through  which  he  was 
to  pass,  he  met  Bianca.  The  damsel  he  knew  was  in  the  con- 
fidence of  both  the  young  ladies.  It  immediately  occurred  to 
him  to  sift  her  on  the  subject  of  Isabella  and  Theodore.  CalHng 
her  aside  into  the  recess  of  the  oriel  window  of  the  hall,  and  sooth- 
ing her  with  many  fair  words  and  promises,  he  demanded  of  her 
whether  she  knew  aught  of  the  state  of  Isabella's  affections  ? 

"I !    my  lord  !    no,  my  lord ■  yes,  my  lord  —  poor  lady  ! 

she  is  wonderfully  alarmed  about  her  father's  wounds ;  but  I 
tell  her  he  will  do  well,  —  don't  your  highness  think  so  ?" 

"I  do  not  ask  you,"  replied  Manfred,  "what  she  thinks  about 
her  father  :  but  you  are  in  her  secrets  :  come,  be  a  good  girl,  and 
tell  me ;  is  there  any  young  man  —  ha  !  —  you  understand  me." 

"Lord,  bless  me!  understand  your  highness  —  no,  not  I; 
I  told  her  a  few  vulnerary  herbs  and  repose " 

"I  am  not  talking,"  replied  the  prince,  impatiently,  "about  her 
father  :  I  know  he  will  do  well." 

"Bless  me,  I  rejoice  to  hear  your  highness  say  so :  for  though 
I  thought  it  not  right  to  let  my  young  lady  despond,  methought 
his  greatness  had  a  wan  look,  and  a  something  —  I  remember 
when  young  Ferdinand  was  wounded  by  the  Venetian " 

"Thou  answerest  from  the  point,"  interrupted  Manfred; 
"but  here,  take  this  jewel ;  perhaps  that  may  fix  thy  attention  — 
nay,  no  reverences ;  my  favour  shall  not  stop  here.  Come,  tell 
me  truly;    how  stands  Isabella's  heart?" 

"Well !  your  highness  has  such  a  way  !"  said  Bianca,  "to  be 
sure,  — —  but  can  your  highness  keep  a  secret  ?  —  if  it  should 
ever  come  out  of  your  Ups " 

"It  shall  not,  it  shall  not,"  cried  Manfred. 

"Nay,  but  swear,  your  highness:  —  by  my  halidame,  if  it 
should  ever  be  known  that  I  said  it  —  Why,  truth  is  truth,  I  do 
not  think  my  lady  Isabella  ever  much  affectioned  my  young  lord, 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  563 

your  son  —  yet  he  was  a  sweet  youth  as  one  should  see.  I  am 
sure,  if  I  had  been  a  prmcess  —  but,  bless  me  !  I  must  attend 
my  Lady  Matilda ;   she  will  marvel  what  is  become  of  me." 

"Stay,"  cried  Manfred  ;  "  thou  hast  not  satisfied  my  question. 
Hast  thou  ever  carried  any  message,  any  letter?" 

"I!  good  gracious!"  cried  Bianca ;  "I  carry  a  letter?  I 
would  not,  to  be  a  queen.  I  hope  your  highness  thinks,  though 
I  am  poor,  I  am  honest ;  —  did  your  highness  never  hear  what 
Count  MarsigH  offered  me,  when  he  came  a-wooing  to  my  Lady 
Matilda?" 

"I  have  not  leisure,"  said  Manfred,  "to  listen  to  thy  tale. 
I  do  not  question  thy  honesty ;  but  it  is  thy  duty  to  conceal 
nothing  from  me.  How  long  has  Isabella  been  acquainted  with 
Theodore?" 

"Nay,  there  is  nothing  can  escape  your  highness!"  said 
Bianca  —  "not  that  I  know  any  thing  of  the  matter.  Theodore, 
to  be  sure,  is  a  proper  young  man,  and,  as  my  Lady  Matilda  says, 
the  very  image  of  good  Alfonso  :  has  not  your  highness  remarked 
it?" 

"Yes,  yes,  —  no  —  thou  torturest  me,"  said  Manfred. 
"Where  did  they  meet  ?  —  when  ?  " 

"Who  !  my  Lady  Matilda  ?"  said  Bianca. 

"No,  no,  not  Matilda;  Isabella.  When  did  Isabella  first 
become  acquainted  with  this  Theodore?" 

"Virgin  Mary  !"  said  Bianca,  "how  should  I  know?" 

"Thou  dost  know!"  said  Manfred,  "and  I  must  know;  I 
will " 

"Lord!  your  highness  is  not  jealous  of  young  Theodore!" 
said  Bianca. 

"Jealous!  no,  no:  why  should  I  be  jealous?  —  perhaps  I 
mean  to  unite  them.  If  I  were  sure  Isabella  would  have  no 
repugnance " 


"Repugnance  !  no,  I'll  warrant  her,"  said  Bianca:  "he  is  as 
comely  a  youth  as  ever  trod  on  Christian  ground.  We  are  all 
in  love  with  him ;  there  is  not  a  soul  in  the  castle  but  would  be 
rejoiced  to  have  him  for  our  prince  —  I  mean,  when  it  shall 
please  Heaven  to  call  your  Highness  to  itself." 

"Indeed!"    said  Manfred:    "has  it  gone  so  far?     Oh!  this 


564  :  HORACE  WALPOLE 

cursed  friar  !  —  but  I  must  not  lose  time  :  —  go,  Bianca,  attend 
Isabella :  but,  I  charge  thee,  not  a  word  of  what  has  passed. 
Find  out  how  she  is  affected  towards  Theodore :  bring  me  good 
news,  and  that  ring  has  a  companion.  Wait  at  the  foot  of  the 
winding  staircase :  I  am  going  to  visit  the  Marquis,  and  will 
talk  further  with  thee  on  my  return." 

Manfred,  after  some  general  conversation,  desired  Frederick 
to  dismiss  the  two  knights,  his  companions,  having  to  talk  with 
him  on  urgent  affairs.  As  soon  as  they  were  alone,  he  began,  in 
artful  disguise,  to  sound  the  Marquis  on  the  subject  of  Matilda : 
and,  finding  him  disposed  to  his  wish,  he  let  drop  hints  on  the 
difficulties  that  would  attend  the  celebration  of  their  marriage, 

unless at  that  instant  Bianca  burst  into  the  room,  with 

a  wildness  in  her  look  and  gestures  that  spoke  the  utmost 
terror. 

"Oh  !  my  lord,  my  lord  !"  cried  she,  "we  are  all  undone  !  it  is 
come  again  !  it  is  come  again  !" 

"What  is  come  again?"  cried  Manfred,  amazed. 

"Oh  !  the  hand ;  the  giant !  the  hand  !  —  support  me  !  I  am 
terrified  out  of  my  senses,"  cried  Bianca.  "I  will  not  sleep  in 
the  castle  to-night.  Where  shall  I  go  ?  —  my  things  may  come 
after  me  to-morrow  —  would  I  had  been  content  to  wed  Fran- 
cesco !  —  this  comes  of  ambition  !" 

"What  has  terrified  thee  thus,  young  woman  ?"  said  the  Mar- 
quis ;    "thou  art  safe  here;    be  not  alarmed." 

"Oh  !  your  greatness  is  wonderfully  good,"  said  Bianca ;  "but 
I  dare  not  —  no,  pray,  let  me  go  —  I  had  rather  leave  everything 
behind  me  than  stay  another  hour  under  this  roof." 

"Go  to  —  thou  hast  lost  thy  senses,"  said  Manfred.  "In- 
terrupt us  not ;  we  were  communing  on  important  matters.  My 
lord,  this  wench  is  subject  to  fits.     Come  with  me,  Bianca." 

"Oh  !  the  saints  !  no,"  said  Bianca :  "for  certain  it  comes  to 
warn  your  highness  :  why  should  it  appear  to  me  else  ?  I  say 
my  prayers  morning  and  evening  —  oh  !  if  your  highness  had 
believed  Diego  !  it  is  the  same  hand  that  he  saw  the  foot  to  in 
the  gallery  chamber  —  Father  Jerome  has  often  told  us  the  proph- 
ecy would  be  out  one  of  these  days:  'Bianca,'  said  he,  'mark 
my  words '  " 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  565 

"Thou  ravest,"  said  Manfred,  in  a  rage;  "begone,  and  keep 
these  fooleries  to  frighten  thy  companions." 

"What !  my  lord,"  cried  Bianca,  "do  you  think  I  have  seen 
nothing  ?  go  to  the  foot  of  the  great  stairs  yourself  —  as  I  Hve, 
I  saw  it." 

"Saw  what?  tell  us,  fair  maid,  what  thou  hast  seen,"  said 
Frederick. 

"Can  your  highness  listen,"  said  Manfred,  "to  the  delirium  of 
a  silly  wench,  who  has  heard  stories  of  apparitions  until  she  be- 
lieves them  ?" 

"This  is  more  than  fancy,"  said  the  Marquis;  "her  terror  is 
too  natural  and  too  strongly  impressed  to  be  the  work  of  imag- 
ination.    Tell  us,  fair  maiden,  what  it  is  has  moved  thee  thus," 

"Yes,  my  lord;  thank  your  greatness,"  said  Bianca.  "I 
believe  I  look  very  pale ;  I  shall  be  better  when  I  have  recovered 
myself.  I  was  going  to  my  Lady's  Isabella's  chamber,  by  his 
highness's  order  — — -" 

"We  do  not  want  the  circumstances,"  interrupted  Manfred: 
"since  his  highness  will  have  it  so,  proceed ;   but  be  brief." 

"Lord!  your  highness  thwarts  one  so!"  replied  Bianca: 
"I  fear  my  hair  —  I  am  sure  I  never  in  my  life  —  well !  as  I 
was  telling  your  greatness,  I  was  going,  by  his  highness's  order, 
to  my  Lady  Isabella's  chamber  :  she  lies  in  the  watchet-coloured 
chamber,  on  the  right  hand,  one  pair  of  stairs :  so  when  I  came 
to  the  great  stairs  —  I  was  looking  on  his  highness's  present 
here—" 

"Grant  me  patience,"  said  Manfred;  "will  this  wench  ever 
come  to  the  point  ?  —  what  imports  it  to  the  Marquis,  that  I 
gave  thee  a  bauble  for  thy  faithful  attendance  on  my  daughter  ? 
— •  we  want  to  know  what  thou  sawest." 

"I  was  going  to  tell  your  highness,"  said  Bianca,  "if  you  would 
permit  me.  So,  as  I  was  rubbing  the  ring  —  I  am  sure  I  had  not 
gone  up  three  steps,  but  I  heard  the  rattling  of  armour ;  for  all 
the  world  such  a  clatter,  as  Diego  says  he  heard  when  the  giant 
turned  him  about  in  the  gallery  chamber." 

"What  does  she  mean,  my  lord  ?"  said  the  Marquis  :  "is  your 
castle  haunted  by  giants  and  goblins  ?  " 

"Lord  !   what,  has  not  your  greatness  heard  the  story  of  the 


566  HORACE  WALPOLE 

giant  in  the  gallery  chamber?"  cried  Bianca.  "I  marvel  his 
highness  has  not  told  you  —  mayhap  you  do  not  know  there  is 
a  prophecy " 

"This  trifling  is  intolerable,"  interrupted  Manfred.  "Let  us 
dismiss  the  silly  wench,  my  lord  !  we  have  more  important  affairs 
to  discuss." 

"By  your  favour,"  said  Frederick,  "these  are  no  trifles:  the 
enormous  sabre  I  was  directed  to  in  the  wood,  —  yon  casque,  its 
fellow,  — ^  are  these  visions  of  this  poor  maiden's  brain?" 

"So  Jaquez  thinks,  may  it  please  your  greatness,"  said  Bianca. 
"He  says  the  moon  will  not  be  out  without  our  seeing  some 
strange  revolution.  For  my  part  I  should  not  be  surprised  if 
it  was  to  happen  to-morrow ;  for  as  I  was  saying,  when  I  heard 
the  clattering  of  armour,  I  was  all  in  a  cold  sweat,  I  looked  up, 
and  if  your  greatness  will  believe  me,  I  saw  upon  the  uppermost 
banister  of  the  stair  a  hand  in  armour,  as  big,  as  big  —  I  thought 
I  should  have  swooned  —  I  never  stopped  until  I  came  hither  — ■ 
would  I  were  well  out  of  this  castle  !  My  Lady  Matilda  told 
me  but  yester-morning  that  her  highness  Hippolita  knows  some- 
thing  " 

"Thou  art  an  insolent,"  cried  Manfred.  "Lord  Marquis, 
it  much  misgives  me  that  this  scene  is  concerted  to  affront  me. 
Are  my  own  domestics  suborned  to  spread  tales  injurious  to  my 
honour  ?  Pursue  your  claim  by  manly  daring ;  or  let  us  bury 
our  feuds,  as  was  proposed,  by  the  intermarriage  of  our  children  : 
but  trust  me,  it  ill  becomes  a  prince  of  your  bearing  to  practise 
on  mercenary  wenches." 

"I  scorn  your  imputation,"  said  Frederick:  "until  this  hour 
I  never  set  eyes  on  this  damsel :  I  have  given  her  no  jewel !  — 
My  lord,  my  lord,  your  conscience,  your  guilt  accuses  you,  and 
you  would  throw  the  suspicion  on  me.  But  keep  your  daughter, 
and  think  no  more  of  Isabella.  The  judgments  already  fallen 
on  your  house  forbid  me  matching  into  it." 

Manfred,  alarmed  at  the  resolute  tone  in  which  Frederick  de- 
livered these  words,  endeavoured  to  pacify  him.  Dismissing 
Bianca,  he  made  such  submissions  to  the  Marquis,  and  threw  in 
such  artful  encomiums  of  Matilda,  that  Frederick  was  once 
more  staggered.     However,  as  his  passion  was  of  so  recent  a 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  567 

date,  it  could  not,  at  once,  surmount  the  scruples  he  had  con- 
ceived. He  had  gathered  enough  from  Bianca's  discourse  to 
persuade  him  that  Heaven  declared  itself  against  Manfred. 
The  proposed  marriages,  too,  removed  his  claim  to  a  distance ; 
and  the  principality  of  Otranto  was  a  stronger  temptation  than 
the  contingent  reversion  of  it  with  Matilda.  Still  he  would  not 
absolutely  recede  from  his  engagements ;  but,  purposing  to  gain 
time,  he  demanded  of  Manfred  if  it  was  true,  in  fact,  that  Hip- 
polita  consented  to  the  divorce.  The  prince,  transported  to  find 
no  other  obstacle,  and  depending  on  his  influence  over  his  wife, 
assured  the  Marquis  it  was  so,  and  that  he  might  satisfy  himself 
of  the  truth  from  her  own  mouth. 

As  they  were  thus  discoursing,  word  was  brought  that  the 
banquet  was  prepared.  Manfred  conducted  Frederick  to  the 
great  hall,  where  they  were  received  by  Hippolita  and  the  young 
princesses.  Manfred  placed  the  Marquis  next  to  Matilda,  and 
seated  himself  between  his  wife  and  Isabella.  Hippolita  com- 
ported herself  with  an  easy  gravity ;  but  the  young  ladies  were 
silent  and  melancholy.  Manfred,  who  was  determined  to  pursue 
his  point  with  the  Marquis  in  the  remainder  of  the  evening, 
pushed  on  the  feast  until  it  waxed  late ;  affecting  unrestrained 
gaiety,  and  plying  Frederick  with  repeated  goblets  of  wine.  The 
latter,  more  upon  his  guard  than  Manfred  wished,  declined  his 
frequent  challenges,  on  pretence  of  his  late  loss  of  blood ;  while 
the  prince,  to  raise  his  own  disordered  spirits,  and  to  counter- 
feit unconcern,  indulged  himself  in  plentiful  draughts,  though 
not  to  the  intoxication  of  his  senses. 

The  evening  being  far  advanced,  the  banquet  concluded. 
Manfred  would  have  withdrawn  with  Frederick :  but  the  latter 
pleading  weakness  and  want  of  repose,  retired  to  his  chamber, 
gallantly  telling  the  prince,  that  his  daughter  should  amuse  his 
highness  until  himself  could  attend  him.  Manfred  accepted  the 
party,  and,  to  the  no  small  grief  of  Isabella,  accompanied  her 
to  her  apartment.  Matilda  waited  on  her  mother  to  enjoy  the 
freshness  of  the  evening  on  the  ramparts  of  the  castle. 

Soon  as  the  company  were  dispersed  their  several  ways, 
Frederick,  quitting  his  chamber,  inquired  if  Hippolita  was  alone, 
and  was  told  by  one  of  her  attendants,  who  had  not  noticed  her 


568  HORACE  WALPOLE 

going  forth,  that  at  that  hour  she  generally  withdrew  to  her 
oratory,  where  he  probably  would  find  her.  The  Marquis, 
during  the  repast,  had  beheld  Matilda  with  increase  of  passion. 
He  now  wished  to  find  Hippolita  in  the  disposition  her  lord  had 
promised.  The  portents  that  had  alarmed  him  were  forgotten 
in  his  desires.  Stealing  softly  and  unobserved  to  the  apartment 
of  Hippohta,  he  entered  it  with  a  resolution  to  encourage  her 
acquiescence  to  the  divorce,  having  perceived  that  Manfred  was 
resolved  to  make  the  possession  of  Isabella  an  unalterable  con- 
dition, before  he  would  grant  Matilda  to  his  wishes. 

The  Marquis  was  not  surprised  at  the  silence  that  reigned  in 
the  princess's  apartment.  Concluding  her,  as  he  had  been  ad- 
vertised, in  her  oratory,  he  passed  on.  The  door  was  ajar ;  the 
evening  gloomy  and  overcast.  Pushing  open  the  door  gently, 
he  saw  a  person  kneeling  before  the  altar.  As  he  approached 
nearer,  it  seemed  not  a  woman,  but  one  in  a  long  woolen  weed, 
whose  back  was  towards  him.  The  person  seemed  absorbed  in 
prayer.  The  Marquis  was  about  to  return,  when  the  figure, 
rising,  stood  some  moments  fixed  in  meditation,  without  regard- 
ing him.  The  Marquis,  expecting  the  holy  person  to  come  forth, 
and  meaning  to  excuse  his  uncivil  interruption,  said,  "Reverend 
father,  I  sought  the  Lady  Hippolita." 

"Hippolita!"  repHed  a  hollow  voice,  "earnest  thou  to  this 
castle  to  seek  Hippolita?"  and  then  the  figure,  turning  slowly 
round,  discovered  to  Frederick  the  fieshless  jaws  and  empty 
sockets  of  a  skeleton,  wrapped  in  a  hermit's  cowl." 

"Angels  of  grace,  protect  me!"  cried  Frederick,  recoiling. 

"Deserve  their  protection  !"  said  the  spectre. 

Frederick,  falling  on  his  knees,  adjured  the  phantom  to  take 
pity  on  him. 

"Dost  thou  not  remember  me?"  said  the  apparition.  "Re- 
member the  wood  of  Joppa  ! " 

"Art  thou  that  holy  hermit?"  cried  Frederick,  trembling. 
"Can  I  do  aught  for  thy  eternal  peace?" 

"Wast  thou  delivered  from  bondage,"  said  the  spectre,  "to 
pursue  carnal  delights  ?  —  Hast  thou  forgotten  the  buried  sabre, 
and  the  behest  of  heaven  engraven  on  it  ?" 

"I  have  not,  I  have  not,"  said  Frederick:  "but  say,  blessed 


THE  CASTLE   OF  OTRANTO  569 

spirit,  what  is  thy  errand  to  me :  —  what  remains  to  be 
done?" 

''To  forget  Matilda!"    said  the  apparition  —  and  vanished. 

Frederick's  blood  froze  in  his  veins.  For  some  minutes  he 
remained  motionless.  Then,  falling  prostrate  on  his  face  before 
the  altar,  he  besought  the  intercession  of  every  saint  for  pardon. 
A  flood  of  tears  succeeded  to  this  transport ;  and  the  image  of 
the  beauteous  Matilda,  rushing,  in  spite  of  him,  on  his  thoughts, 
he  lay  on  the  ground  in  a  conflict  of  penitence  and  passion. 

Ere  he  could  recover  from  this  agony  of  his  spirits,  the  Princess 
HippoHta,  with  a  taper  in  her  hand,  entered  the  oratory  alone. 
Seeing  a  man  without  motion,  on  the  floor,  she  gave  a  shriek, 
concluding  him  dead.  Her  fright  brought  Frederick  to  himself. 
Rising  suddenly,  his  face  bedewed  with  tears,  he  would  have 
rushed  from  her  presence  :  but  Hippolita  stopping  him,  conjured 
him,  in  the  most  plaintive  accents,  to  explain  the  cause  of  his 
disorder,  and  by  what  strange  chance  she  had  found  him  there 
in  that  posture. 

*'Ah!  virtuous  princess,"  said  the  Marquis,  penetrated  with 
grief  —  and  stopped. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  my  lord,"  said  Hippolita,  ''disclose 
the  cause  of  this  transport !  What  means  these  doleful  sounds, 
this  alarming  exclamation  on  my  name  ?  What  woes  has  Heaven 
still  in  store  for  the  wretched  Hippohta  ?  —  Yet  silent !  —  By 
every  pitying  angel,  I  adjure  thee,  noble  prince,"  continued  she, 
falhng  at  his  feet,  "to  disclose  the  purport  of  what  hes  at  thy 
heart  —  I  see  thou  feelest  for  me ;  thou  feelest  the  sharp  pangs 
that  thou  inflictest  —  speak  for  pity  !  —  dost  aught  thou  knowest 
concern  my  child  ?  " 

"I  cannot  speak,"  cried  Frederick,  bursting  from  her —  "Oh  ! 
Matilda!" 

Quitting  the  princess  thus  abruptly,  he  hastened  to  his  own 
apartment.  At  the  door  of  it  he  was  accosted  by  Manfred,  who, 
flushed  by  wine  and  love,  had  come  to  seek  him,  and  to  propose 
to  waste  some  hours  of  the  night  in  music  and  revelling.  Fred- 
erick, offended  at  an  invitation  so  dissonant  from  the  mood  of 
his  soul,  pushed  him  rudely  aside,  and  entering  his  chamber, 
flung  the  door  intemperately  against  Manfred,   and  bolted  it 


570  HORACE   WALPOLE 

inwards.  The  haughty  prince,  enraged  at  this  unaccountable 
behaviour,  withdrew  in  a  frame  of  mind  capable  of  the  most  fatal 
excesses.  As  he  crossed  the  court,  he  was  met  by  the  domestic, 
whom  he  had  planted  at  the  convent  as  a  spy  on  Jerome  and 
Theodore.  This  man,  almost  breathless  with  the  haste  he  had 
made,  informed  his  lord,  that  Theodore  and  some  lady  from  the 
castle  were  at  that  instant  in  private  conference  at  the  tomb  of 
Alfonso,  in  St.  Nicholas's  church.  He  had  dogged  Theodore 
thither,  but  the  gloominess  of  the  night  had  prevented  his  dis- 
covering who  the  woman  was. 

Manfred,  whose  spirits  were  inflamed,  and  whom  Isabella  had 
driven  from  her  on  his  urging  his  passion  with  too  little  reserve, 
did  not  doubt  but  the  inquietude  she  had  expressed  had  been 
occasioned  by  her  impatience  to  meet  Theodore.  Provoked  by 
this  conjecture,  and  enraged  at  her  father,  he  hastened  secretly 
to  the  great  church.  Gliding  softly  between  the  aisles,  and 
guided  by  an  imperfect  gleam  of  moonshine,  that  shone  faintly 
through  the  illuminated  windows,  he  stole  towards  the  tomb  of 
Alfonso,  to  which  he  was  directed  by  indistinct  whispers  of  the 
persons  he  sought.  The  first  sounds  he  could  distinguish  were 
—  "Does  it,  alas  !  depend  on  me?  Manfred  will  never  permit 
our  union " 

"No,  this  shall  prevent  it!"  cried  the  tyrant,  drawing  his 
dagger,  and  plunging  it  over  his  shoulder  into  the  bosom  of  the 
person  that  spoke. 

"Ah,  me!  I  am  slain!"  cried  Matilda,  sinking:  "good 
heaven,  receive  my  soul !" 

"Savage,  inhuman  monster!  what  hast  thou  done?"  cried 
Theodore,  rushing  on  him,  and  wrenching  his  dagger  from  him. 

"Stop,  stop  thy  impious  hand!"  cried  Matilda:  "it  is  my 
father!" 

Manfred,  waking  as  from  a  trance,  beat  his  breast,  twisted 
his  hands  in  his  locks,  and  endeavoured  to  recover  his  dagger 
from  Theodore,  to  despatch  himself.  Theodore,  scarce  less 
distracted,  and  only  mastering  the  transports  of  his  grief,  to 
assist  Matilda,  had  now,  by  his  cries,  drawn  some  of  the  monks 
to  his  aid.  While  part  of  them  endeavoured,  in  concert  with 
the  aflflicted  Theodore,  to  stop  the  blood  of  the  dying  princess, 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  571 

the  rest  prevented  Manfred  from  laying  violent  hands  on 
himself. 

Matilda,  resigning  herself  patiently  to  her  fate,  acknowledged, 
with  looks  of  grateful  love,  the  zeal  of  Theodore.  Yet,  oft  as 
her  faintness  would  permit  her  speech  its  way,  she  begged  the 
assistants  to  comfort  her  father.  Jerome  by  this  time  had 
learned  the  fatal  news,  and  reached  the  church.  His  looks 
seemed  to  reproach  Theodore  :  but,  turning  to  Manfred,  he  said, 

—  "Now,  tyrant  !  behold  the  completion  of  woe  fulfilled  on  thy 
impious  and  devoted  head  !  The  blood  of  Alfonso  cried  to  heaven 
for  vengeance,  and  heaven  has  permitted  its  altar  to  be  polluted 
by  assassination,  that  thou  mightest  shed  thy  own  blood  at  the 
foot  of  that  prince's  sepulchre  !" 

"Cruel  man!"  cried  Matilda,  "to  aggravate  the  woes  of  a 
parent !  may  Heaven  bless  my  father,  and  forgive  him  as  I  do  ! 
My  lord,  my  gracious  sire,  dost  thou  forgive  thy  child  ?  In- 
deed I  came  not  hither  to  meet  Theodore  !  I  found  him  praying 
at  this  tomb,  whither  my  mother  sent  me  to  intercede  for  thee, 

for  her dearest  father,  bless  your  child,  and  say  you  forgive 

her." 

"Forgive  thee!  —  murderous  monster!"  cried  Manfred, — 
"can  assassins  forgive?  I  took  thee  for  Isabella;  but  Heaven 
directed  my  bloody  hand  to  the  heart  of  my  child.     Oh  !  Matilda 

—  I  cannot  utter  it  —  canst  thou  forgive  the  blindness  of  my 
rage  ?" 

"I  can,  I  do  !  and  may  Heaven  confirm  it !"  said  Matilda  — 
"but  while  I  have  Hfe  to  ask  it  —  Oh  !  my  mother  !  what  will 
she  feel  ?  will  you  comfort  her  ?  my  lord  !  will  you  not  put  her 
away  ?  indeed  she  loves  you  —  oh  !  I  am  faint !  bear  me  to 
the  castle  —  can  I  live  to  have  her  close  my  eyes  ?" 

Theodore  and  the  monks  besought  her  earnestly  to  suffer 
herself  to  be  borne  into  the  convent ;  but  her  instances  were 
so  pressing  to  be  carried  to  the  castle,  that,  placing  her  on  a 
htter,  they  conveyed  her  thither  as  she  requested.  Theodore, 
supporting  her  head  with  his  arm,  and  hanging  over  her  in  an 
agony  of  despairing  love,  still  endeavoured  to  inspire  her  with 
hopes  of  life.  Jerome,  on  the  other  side,  comforted  her  with 
discourses  of  Heaven,  and  holding  a  crucifix  before  her,  which 


572  HORACE   WALPOLE 

she  bathed  with  innocent  tears,  prepared  her  for  her  passage  to 
immortaHty.  Manfred,  plunged  in  the  deepest  affliction,  fol- 
lowed the  litter  in  despair. 

Ere  they  reached  the  castle,  Hippolita,  informed  of  the  dread- 
ful catastrophe,  had  flown  to  meet  her  murdered  child:  but 
when  she  saw  the  afflicted  procession,  the  mightiness  of  her 
grief  deprived  her  of  her  senses,  and  she  fell  lifeless  to  the  earth 
in  a  swoon.  Isabella  and  Frederick,  who  attended  her,  were 
overwhelmed  in  almost  equal  sorrow.  Matilda  alone  seemed 
insensible  to  her  own  situation  :  every  thought  was  lost  in  tender- 
ness for  her  mother.  Ordering  the  litter  to  stop,  as  soon  as 
Hippolita  was  brought  to  herself,  she  asked  for  her  father.  He 
approached,  unable  to  speak.  Matilda,  seizing  his  hand  and 
her  mother's,  locked  them  in  her  own,  and  clasped  them  to  her 
heart.  Manfred  could  not  support  this  act  of  pathetic  piety. 
He  dashed  himself  on  the  ground,  and  cursed  the  day  he  was  born. 
Isabella,  apprehensive  that  these  struggles  of  passion  were  more 
than  Matilda  could  support,  took  upon  herself  to  order  Manfred 
to  be  borne  to  his  apartment,  while  she  caused  Matilda  to  be 
conveyed  to  the  nearest  chamber.  Hippolita,  scarce  more  alive 
than  her  daughter,  was  regardless  of  every  thing  but  her :  but 
when  the  tender  Isabella's  care  would  have  likewise  removed 
her,  while  the  surgeons  examined  Matilda's  wound,  she  cried,  — 

"Remove  me  !  never  !  never  !  I  lived  but  in  her,  and  will 
expire  with  her." 

Matilda  raised  her  eyes  at  her  mother's  voice,  but  closed  them 
again  without  speaking.  Her  sinking  pulse,  and  the  damp 
coldness  of  her  hand,  soon  dispelled  all  hopes  of  recovery. 
Theodore  followed  the  surgeons  into  the  outer  chamber,  and 
heard  them  pronounce  the  fatal  sentence,  with  a  transport  equal 
to  frenzy. 

"Since  she  cannot  live  mine,"  cried  he,  "at  least  she  shall  be 
mine  in  death  !  Father  !  Jerome  !  will  you  not  join  our  hands  ?  " 
cried  he  to  the  friar,  who,  with  the  Marquis,  had  accompanied  the 
surgeons. 

"What  means  thy  distracted  rashness?"  said  Jerome:  "Is 
this  an  hour  for  marriage  ?  " 

"It  is,  it  is,"  cried  Theodore;   "alas  !  there  is  no  other  !" 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  573 

"Young  man,  thou  art  too  unadvised,"  said  Frederick:  — 
"dost  thou  think  we  are  to  Hsten  to  thy  fond  transports  in  this 
hour  of  fate?  —  what  pretensions  hast  thou  to  the  princess?" 

"Those  of  a  prince,"  said  Theodore  ^ — "of  the  sovereign  of 
Otranto.  This  reverend  man,  my  father,  has  informed  me  who 
I  am." 

"Thou  ravest,"  said  the  Marquis;  "there  is  no  prince  of 
Otranto  but  myself,  now  Manfred,  by  murder,  by  sacrilegious 
murder,  has  forfeited  all  pretensions." 

"My  lord,"  said  Jerome,  assuming  an  air  of  command,  "he 
tells  you  true.  It  was  not  my  purpose  the  secret  should  have 
been  divulged  so  soon ;  but  fate  presses  onward  to  its  work. 
What  his  hot-headed  passion  has  revealed,  my  tongue  con- 
firms. Know,  prince,  that  when  Alfonso  set  sail  for  the  Holy 
Land " 

"Is  this  a  season  for  explanation?"  cried  Theodore. — 
"Father,  come  and  unite  me  to  the  princess :  she  shall  be  mine 
- —  in  every  other  thing  I  will  dutifully  obey  you.  My  life,  my 
adored  Matilda!"  continued  Theodore,  rushing  back  into  the 
inner  chamber,  "will  you  not  be  mine?  will  you  not  bless 
your  — • —  " 

Isabella  made  signs  for  him  to  be  silent,  apprehending  the 
princess  was  near  her  end. 

"What !  is  she  dead  ?"    cried  Theodore  :    "is  it  possible  ?" 

The  violence  of  his  exclamations  brought  Matilda  to  herself. 
Lifting  up  her  eyes,  she  looked  round  for  her  mother. 

"Life  of  my  soul !  I  am  here,"  cried  Hippolita;  "think  not 
I  will  quit  thee!" 

"Oh  !  you  are  too  good,"  said  Matilda  —  "but  weep  not  for 
me,  my  mother  !  —  I  am  going  where  sorrow  never  dwells  — 
Isabella,  thou  hast  loved  me ;  wilt  thou  not  supply  my  fondness 
to  this  dear,  dear  woman?  —  indeed  I  am  faint !" 

"Oh,  my  child!  my  child!"  said  Hippolita,  in  a  flood  of 
tears:    "can  I  not  withhold  thee  a  moment?" 

"It  will  not  be,"  said  Matilda  —  "commend  me  to  Heaven: 
—  where  is  my  father  ?  —  forgive  him,  dearest  mother  —  for- 
give him  my  death ;  it  was  an  error  —  Oh  !  I  had  forgotten  — 
dearest  mother,  I  vowed  never  to  see  Theodore  more  —  perhaps 


574 


HORACE   WALPOLE 


that  has  drawn  down  this  calamity  —  but  it  was  not  intentional 
—  can  you  pardon  me  ?  " 

"Oh  !  wound  not  my  agonising  soul !"  said  Hippolita ;  "thou 
never  couldst  offend  me  —  Alas  !    she  faints  !    help  !    help  !" 

"I  would  say  something  more,"  said  Matilda,  struggKng; 
"but  it  cannot  be!  Isabella  —  Theodore  —  for  my  sake  — 
Oh  !"  —  she  expired. 

Isabella  and  her  women  tore  Hippolita  from  the  corpse ;  but 
Theodore  threatened  destruction  to  all  who  attempted  to  remove 
him  from  it.  He  printed  a  thousand  kisses  on  her  clay-cold 
hands,  and  uttered  every  expression  that  despairing  love  could 
dictate. 

Isabella,  in  the  meantime,  was  accompanying  the  afflicted 
Hippolita  to  her  apartment ;  but,  in  the  middle  of  the  court, 
they  were  met  by  Manfred,  who,  distracted  with  his  own 
thoughts,  and  anxious  once  more  to  behold  his  daughter,  was 
advancing  to  the  chamber  where  she  lay.  As  the  moon  was  now 
at  its  height,  he  read,  in  the  countenances  of  this  unhappy  com- 
pany, the  event  he  dreaded. 

"What !  is  she  dead?"  cried  he,  in  wild  confusion.  A  clap 
of  thunder  at  that  instant  shook  the  castle  to  its  foundations ; 
the  earth  rocked,  and  the  clank  of  more  than  mortal  armour 
was  heard  behind.  Frederick  and  Jerome  thought  the  last  day 
was  at  hand.  The  latter,  forcing  Theodore  along  with  them, 
rushed  into  the  court.  The  moment  Theodore  appeared,  the 
walls  of  the  castle  behind  Manfred  were  thrown  down  with  a 
mighty  force,  and  the  form  of  Alfonso,  dilated  to  an  immense 
magnitude,  appeared  in  the  centre  of  the  ruins. 

"Behold  in  Theodore  the  true  heir  of  Alfonso!"  said  the 
vision :  and  having  pronounced  these  words,  accompanied  by  a 
clap  of  thunder,  it  ascended  solemnly  towards  heaven,  where,  the 
clouds  parting  asunder,  the  form  of  St.  Nicholas  was  seen,  and 
receiving  Alfonso's  shade,  they  were  soon  wrapt  from  mortal 
eyes  in  a  blaze  of  glory. 

The  beholders  fell  prostrate  on  their  faces,  acknowledging  the 
divine  will.     The  first  that  broke  silence  was  Hippolita. 

"My  lord,"  said  she,  to  the  desponding  Manfred,  "behold  the 
vanity  of  human  greatness  !     Conrad  is  gone  !     Matilda  is  no 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  575 

more  !  in  Theodore  we  view  the  true  Prince  of  Otranto.  By 
what  miracle  he  is  so,  I  know  not  —  suffice  it  to  us  —  our  doom 
is  pronounced  !  shall  we  not,  can  we  but  dedicate  the  few  de- 
plorable hours  we  have  to  live,  in  deprecating  the  farther  wrath 
of  Heaven  ?  Heaven  ejects  us  —  whither  can  we  fly,  but  to  yon 
holy  cells  that  yet  offer  us  a  retreat  ?" 

"Thou  guiltless  but  unhappy  woman!  unhappy  by  my 
crimes!"  replied  Manfred,  "my  heart  at  last  is  open  to  thy 
devout  admonitions.  Oh  !  could  —  but  it  cannot  be  —  ye  are 
lost  in  wonder  —  let  me  at  last  do  justice  on  myself !  To  heap 
shame  on  my  own  head  is  all  the  satisfaction  I  have  left  to  offer 
to  offended  Heaven.  My  story  has  drawn  down  these  judg- 
ments :  let  my  confession  atone  —  but  ah  !  what  can  atone  for 
usurpation,  and  a  murdered  child  !  a  child  murdered  in  a  con- 
secrated place  !  List,  sirs,  and  may  this  bloody  record  be  a 
warning  to  future  tyrants  ! 

"Alfonso,  ye  all  know,  died  in  the  Holy  Land.  Ye  would 
interrupt  me  ;  ye  would  say  he  came  not  fairly  to  his  end.  It  is 
most  true ;  why  else  this  bitter  cup,  which  Manfred  must  drink 
to  the  dregs  ?  Ricardo,  my  grandfather,  was  his  chamberlain  — 
I  would  draw  a  veil  over  my  ancestor's  crimes  —  but  it  is  in  vain  ! 
Alfonso  died  by  poison.  A  fictitious  will  declared  Ricardo  his 
heir.  His  crimes  pursued  him  —  yet  he  lost  no  Conrad,  no 
Matilda  !  I  pay  the  price  of  usurpation  for  all !  A  storm  over- 
took him.  Haunted  by  his  guilt,  he  vowed  to  St.  Nicholas  to 
found  a  church  and  two  convents,  if  he  lived  to  reach  Otranto. 
The  sacrifice  was  accepted  :  the  saint  appeared  to  him  in  a  dream, 
and  promised  that  Ricardo 's  posterity  should  reign  in  Otranto 
until  the  rightful  owner  should  be  grown  too  large  to  inhabit 
the  castle,  and  as  long  as  issue  male  from  Ricardo 's  loins  should 
remain  to  enjoy  it.  Alas  !  alas  !  nor  male  nor  female,  except 
myself,  remains  of  all  his  wretched  race  !  —  I  have  done  —  the 
woes  of  these  three  days  speak  the  rest.  How  this  young  man 
can  be  Alfonso's  heir,  I  know  not  —  yet  I  do  not  doubt  it.  His 
are  these  dominions ;  I  resign  them  —  yet  I  knew  not  Alfonso 
had  an  heir  —  I  question  not  the  will  of  Heaven  —  poverty  and 
prayer  must  fill  up  the  woeful  space,  until  Manfred  shall  be 
summoned  to  Ricardo." 


576  HORACE  WALPOLE 

"What  remains  is  my  part  to  declare,"  said  Jerome.  "When 
Alfonso  set  sail  for  the  Holy  Land,  he  was  driven  by  a  storm  to 
the  coast  of  Sicily.  The  other  vessel,  which  bore  Ricardo  and 
his  train,  as  your  lordship  must  have  heard,  was  separated  from 
him." 

"It  is  most  true,"  said  Manfred  :  "and  the  title  you  give 
me  is  more  than  an  outcast  can  claim  —  well !  be  it  so  — 
proceed." 

Jerome  blushed,  and  continued.  "For  three  months  Lord 
Alfonso  was  wind-bound  in  Sicily.  There  he  became  enamoured 
of  a  fair  virgin,  named  Victoria.  He  was  too  pious  to  tempt  her 
to  forbidden  pleasures.  They  were  married.  Yet  deeming  this 
amour  incongruous  with  the  holy  vow  of  arms  by  which  he  was 
bound,  he  determined  to  conceal  their  nuptials,  until  his  return 
from  the  Crusade,  when  he  purposed  to  seek  and  acknowledge  her 
for  his  lawful  wife.  He  left  her  pregnant.  During  his  absence, 
she  was  delivered  of  a  daughter :  but  scarce  had  she  felt  a 
mother's  pangs,  ere  she  heard  the  fatal  rumour  of  her  lord's 
death,  and  the  succession  of  Ricardo.  What  could  a  friendless, 
helpless  woman  do  ?  Would  her  testimony  avail  ?  Yet,  my 
lord,  I  have  an  authentic  writing  — " 

"It  needs  not,"  said  Manfred  :  "the  horrors  of  these  days,  the 
vision  we  have  but  now  seen,  all  corroborate  thy  evidence  beyond 
a  thousand  parchments.  Matilda's  death,  and  my  expul- 
sion  " 

"Be  composed,  my  lord,"  said  Hippolita ;  "this  holy  man  did 
not  mean  to  recall  your  griefs." 

Jerome  proceeded  :  — 

"I  shall  not  dwell  on  what  is  needless,  —  the  daughter  of 
which  Victoria  was  delivered,  was,  at  her  maturity,  bestowed  in 
marriage  on  me.  Victoria  died  ;  and  the  secret  remained  locked 
in  my  breast.     Theodore's  narrative  has  told  the  rest." 

Tin-  triar  ceased.  The  disconsolate  company  retired  to  the 
remaining  j)art  of  the  castle.  In  the  morning,  Manfred  signed 
his  abdication  of  the  principahty,  with  the  approbation  of  Hip- 
polita. and  each  took  on  them  the  habit  of  religion  in  the  neigh- 
bouring (7)nvents.  Frederick  offered  his  daughter  to  the  new 
prince,  which  Hippolita's  tenderness  for  Isabella  concurred  to 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO  577 

promote ;  but  Theodore's  grief  was  too  fresh  to  admit  the 
thought  of  another  love ;  and  it  was  not  until  after  frequent  dis- 
courses with  Isabella,  of  his  dear  Matilda,  that  he  was  persuaded 
he  could  know  no  happiness  but  in  the  society  of  one  with  whom 
he  could  for  ever  indulge  the  melancholy  that  had  taken  pos- 
session of  his  soul. 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO 

MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

PLACE,   ITALY  AND   FRANCE;  TIME,    1584 
PART   I.     CHAPTER   XIX 

[The  Journey  to  Udolpho] 

At  length  the  travellers  began  to  ascend  among  the  Apennines. 
The  immense  pine-forests  which  at  that  period  overhung  these 
mountains,  and  between  which  the  road  wound,  excluded  all 
view  but  of  the  cliffs  aspiring  above,  except  that  now  and  then  an 
opening  through  the  dark  woods  allowed  the  eye  a  momentary 
glimpse  of  the  country  below.  The  gloom  of  these  shades,  their 
solitary  silence,  except  when  the  breeze  swept  over  their  sum- 
mits, the  tremendous  precipices  of  the  mountains  that  came 
partially  to  the  eye,  each  assisted  to  raise  the  solemnity  of 
Emily's  ^  feehngs  into  awe  :  she  saw  only  images  of  gloomy  gran- 
deur, or  of  dreadful  subhmity,  around  her ;  other  images,  equally 
gloomy,  and  equally  terrible,  gleamed  on  her  imagination.  She 
was  going  she  scarcely  knew  whither,  under  the  dominion  of  a 
person  from  whose  arbitrary  disposition  she  had  already  suffered 
so  much ;  to  marry,  perhaps,  a  man  who  possessed  neither  her 
afTection  nor  esteem ;  or  to  endure,  beyond  the  hope  of  succour, 
whatever  punishment  revenge,  and  that  Itahan  revenge,  might 
dictate.  —  The  more  she  considered  what  might  be  the  motive 
of  the  journey,  the  more  she  became  convinced  that  it  was  for 
the  purpose  of  concluding  her  nuptials  with  Count  Morano,  with 
the  secrecy  which  her  resolute  resistance  had  made  necessary  to 
the  honour,  if  not  to  the  safety,  of  Montoni.     From  the  deep 

•  Emily  St.  .Aubcrt,  an  orphan,  was  consigned  by  her  father  at  his  death  to  the  guardian- 
ship of  his  widowed  sister.  Madame  Cheron.  The  hitter  has  now  become  the  wife  of  the 
unscrupulous  Montoni.  The  travellers  mentioned  here  are  Emily  and  Montoni  and  his 
wife. 

578 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  579 

solitudes  into  which  she  was  emerging,  and  from  the  gloomy 
castle  of  which  she  had  heard  some  mysterious  hints,  her  sick 
heart  recoiled  in  despair,  and  she  experienced  that,  though  her 
mind  was  already  occupied  by  peculiar  distress,  it  was  still  alive 
to  the  influence  of  new  and  local  circumstance ;  why  else  did 
she  shudder  at  the  image  of  this  desolate  castle  ? 

As  the  travellers  still  ascended  among  the  pine-forests,  steep 
rose  over  steep,  the  mountains  seemed  to  multiply  as  they  went, 
and  what  was  the  summit  of  one  eminence  proved  to  be  only  the 
base  of  another.  At  length  they  reached  a  little  plain,  where  the 
drivers  stopped  to  rest  the  mules,  when  a  scene  of  such  extent 
and  magnificence  opened  below,  as  drew  even  from  Madame 
Montoni  a  note  of  admiration.  Emily  lost  for  a  moment  her 
sorrows  in  the  immensity  of  nature.  Beyond  the  amphitheatre  of 
mountains  that  stretched  below,  whose  tops  appeared  as  numer- 
ous almost  as  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  whose  feet  were  concealed 
by  the  forests  — ■  extended  the  campagna  of  Italy,  where  cities 
and  rivers  and  woods,  and  all  the  glow  of  cultivation,  were  mingled 
in  gay  confusion.  The  Adriatic  bounded  the  horizon,  into  which 
the  Po  and  the  Brenta,  after  winding  through  the  whole  extent 
of  the  landscape,  poured  their  fruitful  waves.  Emily  gazed 
long  on  the  splendours  of  the  world  she  was  quitting,  of  which  the 
whole  magnificence  seemed  thus  given  to  her  sight  only  to 
increase  her  regret  on  leaving  it :  for  her,  Valancourt  ^  alone  was 
in  that  world ;  to  him  alone  her  heart  turned,  and  for  him  alone 
fell  her  bitter  tears. 

From  this  sublime  scene  the  travellers  continued  to  ascend 
among  the  pines,  till  they  entered  a  narrow  pass  of  the  moun- 
tains, which  shut  out  every  feature  of  the  distant  country,  and  in 
its  stead  exhibited  only  tremendous  crags  impending  over  the 
road,  where  no  vestige  of  humanity,  or  even  of  vegetation,  ap- 
peared, except  here  and  there  the  trunk  and  scathed  branches  of 
an  oak,  that  hung  nearly  headlong  from  the  rock  into  which  its 
strong  roots  had  fastened.  This  pass,  which  led  into  the  heart 
of  the  Apennines,  at  length  opened  to  day,  and  a  scene  of  moun- 
tains stretched  in  long  perspective,  as  wild  as  any  the  travellers 
had  yet  passed.     Still  vast  pine-forests  hung  upon  their  base, 

*  Emily's  betrothed.     He  was  not  acknowledged  by  Madame  Montoni. 


^So  MRS.  ANN  RADCLIFFE 

and  crowned  the  ridgy  precipice  that  rose  perpendicularly  from 
the  vale,  while,  above,  the  rolling  mists  caught  the  sun-beams, 
and  touched  their  cHffs  with  all  the  magical  colouring  of  light  and 
shade.  The  scene  seemed  perpetually  changing,  and  its  features 
to  assume  new  forms,  as  the  winding  road  brought  them  to  the 
eye  in  different  attitudes;  while  the  shifting  vapours,  now 
partially  concealing  their  minuter  beauties,  and  now  illuminating 
them  with  splendid  tints,  assisted  the  illusions  of  the  sight. 

Though  the  deep  valleys  between  these  mountains  were  for 
the  most  part  clothed  with  pines,  sometimes  an  abrupt  opening 
presented  a  perspective  of  only  barren  rocks,  with  a  cataract 
flashing  from  their  summit  among  broken  chffs,  till  its  waters, 
reaching  the  bottom,  foamed  along  with  louder  fury ;  and  some- 
times pastoral  scenes  exhibited  their  'green  delights'  in  the  nar- 
row vales,  smiling  amid  surrounding  horror.  There  herds  and 
flocks  of  goats  and  sheep  browsing  under  the  shade  of  hanging 
woods,  and  the  shepherd's  httle  cabin  reared  on  the  margin  of  a 
clear  stream,  presented  a  sweet  picture  of  repose. 

Wild  and  romantic  as  were  these  scenes,  their  character  had  far 
less  of  the  sublime  than  had  those  of  the  Alps  which  guard  the 
entrance  of  Italy.  Emily  was  often  elevated,  but  seldom  felt 
those  emotions  of  indescribable  awe  which  she  had  so  continually 
experienced  in  her  passage  over  the  Alps. 

Towards  the  close  of  day  the  road  wound  into  a  deep  valley. 
Mountains,  whose  shaggy  steeps  appeared  to  be  inaccessible, 
almost  surrounded  it.  To  the  east  a  vista  opened,  and  exhibited 
the  Apennines  in  their  darkest  horrors ;  and  the  long  perspective 
of  retiring  summits  rising  over  each  other,  their  ridges  clothed 
with  pines,  exhibited  a  stronger  image  of  grandeur  than  any  that 
Emily  had  yet  seen.  The  sun  had  just  sunk  below  the  top  of  the 
mountains  she  was  descending,  whose  long  shadow  stretched 
athwart  the  valley ;  but  his  sloping  rays,  shooting  through  an 
opening  of  the  cliffs,  touched  with  a  yellow  gleam  the  summits 
of  the  forest  that  hung  upon  the  opposite  steeps,  and  streamed  in 
full  splendour  upon  the  towers  and  battlements  of  a  castle  that 
spread  its  extensive  ramparts  along  the  brow  of  a  precipice  above. 
The  splendour  of  these  illumined  objects  was  heightened  by  the 
contrasted  shade  which  involved  the  valley  below. 


THE   MYSTERIES  OF   UDOLPHO  581 

'There,'  said  Montoni,  speaking  for  the  first  time  in  several 
hours,  'is  Udolpho.' 

Emily  gazed  with  melancholy  awe  upon  the  castle,  which  she 
understood  to  be  Montoni's ;  for,  though  it  was  now  lighted  up 
by  the  setting  sun,  the  gothic  greatness  of  its  features,  and  its 
mouldering  walls  of  dark  gray  stone,  rendered  it  a  gloomy  and 
sublime  object.  As  she  gazed,  the  light  died  away  on  its  walls, 
leaving  a  melancholy  purple  tint,  which  spread  deeper  and  deeper 
as  the  thin  vapour  crept  up  the  mountain,  while  the  battle- 
ments above  were  still  tipped  with  splendour.  From  those,  too, 
the  rays  soon  faded,  and  the  whole  edifice  was  invested  with  the 
solemn  duskiness  of  evening.  Silent,  lonely,  and  sublime,  it 
seemed  to  stand  the  sovereign  of  the  scene,  and  to  frown  defiance 
on  all  who  dared  to  invade  its  solitary  reign.  As  the  twilight 
deepened,  its  features  became  more  awful  in  obscurity ;  and 
Emily  continued  to  gaze,  till  its  clustering  towers  were  alone  seen 
rising  over  the  tops  of  the  woods,  beneath  whose  thick  shade  the 
carriages  soon  after  began  to  ascend. 

The  extent  and  darkness  of  these  tall  woods  awakened  terrific 
images  in  her  mind,  and  she  almost  expected  to  see  banditti 
start  up  from  under  the  trees.  At  length  the  carriages  emerged 
upon  a  heathy  rock,  and  soon  after  reached  the  castle  gates,  where 
the  deep  tone  of  the  portal  bell,  which  was  struck  upon  to  give 
notice  of  their  arrival,  increased  the  fearful  emotions  that  had 
assailed  Emily.  While  they  waited  till  the  servant  within 
should  come  to  open  the  gates,  she  anxiously  surveyed  the  edifice : 
but  the  gloom  that  overspread  it  allowed  her  to  distinguish  little 
more  than  a  part  of  its  outline,  with  the  massy  walls  of  the  ram- 
parts, and  to  know  that  it  was  vast,  ancient,  and  dreary.  From 
the  parts  she  saw,  she  judged  of  the  heavy  strength  and  extent 
of  the  whole.  The  gateway  before  her,  leading  into  the  courts, 
was  of  gigantic  size,  and  was  defended  by  two  round  towers 
crowned  by  overhanging  turrets  embattled,  where,  instead  of 
banners,  now  waved  long  grass  and  wild  plants  that  had  taken 
root  among  the  mouldering  stones,  and  which  seemed  to  sigh, 
as  the  breeze  rolled  past,  over  the  desolation  around  them.  The 
towers  were  united  by  a  curtain  pierced  and  embattled  also,  below 
which  appeared  the  pointed  arch  of  a  huge  portcullis  surmounting 


582  MRS.  ANN  RADCLIFFE 

the  gates :  from  these  the  walls  of  the  ramparts  extended  to 
other  towers  overlooking  the  precipice,  whose  shattered  outhne, 
appearing  on  a  gleam  that  lingered  in  the  west,  told  of  the  ravages 
of  war.  —  Beyond  these  all  was  lost  in  the  obscurity  of  evening. 

While  Emily  gazed  with  awe  upon  the  scene,  footsteps  were 
heard  within  the  gates,  and  the  undrawing  of  bolts ;  after  which 
an  ancient  servant  of  the  castle  appeared,  forcing  back  the  huge 
folds  of  the  portal  to  admit  his  lord.  As  the  carriage-wheels 
rolled  heavily  under  the  portcullis,  Emily's  heart  sunk,  and  she 
seemed  as  if  she  was  going  into  her  prison  ;  the  gloomy  court  into 
which  she  passed,  served  to  confirm  the  idea ;  and  her  imagina- 
tion, ever  awake  to  circumstance,  suggested  even  more  terrors 
than  her  reason  could  justify. 

Another  gate  delivered  them  into  the  second  court,  grass- 
grown  and  more  wild  than  the  first,  where,  as  she  surveyed 
through  the  twihght  its  desolation  —  its  lofty  walls  overtopped 
with  briony,  moss,  and  nightshade,  and  the  embattled  towers 
that  rose  above  —  long  suffering  and  murder  came  to  her 
thoughts.  One  of  those  instantaneous  and  unaccountable  con- 
victions, which  sometimes  conquer  even  strong  minds,  impressed 
her  with  its  horror.  The  sentiment  was  not  diminished  when 
she  entered  an  extensive  gothic  hall,  obscured  by  the  gloom  of 
evening,  which  a  light  glimmering  at  a  distance  through  a  long 
perspective  of  arches  only  rendered  more  striking.  As  a  servant 
brought  the  lamp  nearer,  partial  gleams  fell  upon  the  pillars  and 
the  pointed  arches,  forming  a  strong  contrast  with  their  shadows 
that  stretched  along  the  pavement  and  the  walls. 

The  sudden  journey  of  Montoni  had  prevented  his  people 
from  making  any  other  preparations  for  his  reception  than  could 
be  had  in  the  short  interval  since  the  arrival  of  the  servant  who 
had  been  sent  forward  from  Venice ;  and  this,  in  some  measure, 
may  account  for  the  air  of  extreme  desolation  that  everywhere 
appeared. 

The  servant  who  came  to  light  Montoni  bowed  in  silence,  and 
the  muscles  of  his  countenance  relaxed  with  no  symptom  of  joy. 
Montoni  noticed  the  salutation  by  a  slight  motion  of  his  hand, 
and  passed  on ;  while  his  lady,  following,  and  looking  round  with 
a  degree  of  surprise  and  discontent  which  she  seemed  fearful  of 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  583 

expressing,  and  Emily,  surveying  the  extent  and  grandeur  of 
the  hall  in  timid  wonder,  approached  a  marble  staircase.  The 
arches  here  opened  to  a  lofty  vault,  from  the  centre  of  which 
hung  a  tripod  lamp  which  a  servant  was  hastily  lighting ;  and 
the  rich  fret-work  of  the  roof,  a  corridor  leading  into  several 
upper  apartments,  and  a  painted  window  stretching  nearly 
from  the  pavement  to  the  ceiling  of  the  hall,  became  gradually 
visible. 

Having  crossed  the  foot  of  the  staircase  and  passed  through  an 
ante-room,  they  entered  a  spacious  apartment,  whose  walls, 
wainscoted  with  black  larch-wood,  the  growth  of  the  neighbour- 
ing mountains,  were  scarcely  distinguishable  from  darkness 
itself. 

'Bring  more  light,'  said  Montoni  as  he  entered. 

The  servant,  setting  down  his  lamp,  was  withdrawing  to  obey 
him ;  when  Madame  Montoni  observing  that  the  evening  air  of 
this  mountainous  region  was  cold,  and  that  she  should  like  a 
fire,  Montoni  ordered  that  wood  might  be  brought. 

While  he  paced  the  room  with  thoughtful  steps,  and  Madame 
Montoni  sat  silently  on  a  couch  at  the  upper  end  of  it  waiting 
till  the  servant  returned,  Emily  was  observing  the  singular 
solemnity  and  desolation  of  the  apartment,  viewed  as  it  now  was 
by  the  glimmer  of  the  single  lamp,  placed  near  a  large  Venetian 
mirror  that  duskily  reflected  the  scene,  with  the  tall  figure  of 
Montoni  passing  slowly  along,  his  arms  folded,  and  his  coun- 
tenance shaded  by  the  plume  that  waved  in  his  hat. 

From  the  contemplation  of  this  scene,  Emily's  mind  pro- 
ceeded to  the  apprehension  of  what  she  might  suffer  in  it,  till 
the  remembrance  of  Valancourt,  far,  far  distant !  came  to  her 
heart,  and  softened  it  into  sorrow.  A  heavy  sigh  escaped  her : 
but  trying  to  conceal  her  tears,  she  walked  away  to  one  of  the 
high  windows  that  opened  upon  the  ramparts,  below  which  spread 
the  woods  she  had  passed  in  her  approach  to  the  castle.  But  the 
night  shade  sat  deeply  on  the  mountains  beyond  and  their 
indented  outline  alone  could  be  faintly  traced  on  the  horizon, 
where  a  red  streak  yet  glimmered  in  the  west.  The  valley 
between  was  sunk  in  darkness. 

The  scene  within,  upon  which  Emily  turned  on  the  opening  of 


^84  MRS.  ANN   RADCLIFFE 

the  door,  was  scarcely  less  gloomy.  The  old  servant  who  had 
received  them  at  the  gates  now  entered,  bending  under  a  load 
of  pine  branches,  while  two  of  Montoni's  Venetian  servants 
followed  with  lights. 


The  fire  was  now  lighted;  Carlo  swept  the  hearth,  placed 
chairs,  wiped  the  dust  from  a  large  marble  table  that  stood  near 
it,  and  then  left  the  room. 

Montoni  and  his  family  drew  round  the  fire.  Madame  Mon- 
toni  made  several  attempts  at  conversation,  but  his  sullen  an- 
swers repulsed  her,  while  Emily  sat  endeavouring  to  acquire 
courage  enough  to  speak  to  him.  At  length,  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  she  said,  '  May  I  ask,  sir,  the  motive  of  this  sudden  jour- 
ney ? '  —  After  a  long  pause  she  recovered  sufficient  courage  to 
repeat  the  question. 

'It  does  not  suit  me  to  answer  inquiries,'  said  Montoni,  'nor 
does  it  become  you  to  make  them ;  time  may  unfold  them  all ; 
but  I  desire  I  may  be  no  further  harassed,  and  I  recommend  it  to 
you  to  retire  to  your  chamber,  and  to  endeavour  to  adopt  a 
more  rational  conduct  than  that  of  yielding  to  fancies,  and  to  a 
sensibility  which,  to  call  it  by  the  gentlest  name,  is  only  a  weak- 
ness.' 

Emily  rose  to  withdraw.  'Good  night,  madam,'  said  she  to 
her  aunt  with  an  assumed  composure  that  could  not  disguise  her- 
emotion. 

'Good  night,  my  dear,'  said  Madame  Montoni  in  a  tone  of 
kindness  which  her  niece  had  never  before  heard  from  her;  and 
the  unexpected  endearment  brought  tears  to  Emily's  eyes. 
She  curtsied  to  Montoni,  and  was  retiring.  'But  you  do  not 
know  the  way  to  your  chamber,'  said  her  aunt.  Montoni  called 
the  servant,  who  waited  in  the  ante-room,  and  bade  him  send 
Madame  Montoni's  woman;  with  whom,  in  a  few  minutes, 
Emily  withdrew. 

'  Do  you  know  which  is  my  room  ? '  said  she  to  Annette,  as 
they  crossed  the  hall. 

'Yes,  I  believe  I  do,  ma'amselle ;  but  this  is  such  a  strange 
rambling  place  !     I  have  been  lost  in  it  already ;   they  call  it  the 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  585 

double  chamber  over  the  south  rampart,  and  I  went  up  this  great 
staircase  to  it.     My  lady's  room  is  at  the  other  end  of  the  castle.' 

Emily  ascended  the  marble  staircase,  and  came  to  the  corridor, 
as  they  passed  through  which  Annette  resumed  her  chat :  — 
'What  a  wild  lonely  place  this  is,  ma'am  !  I  shall  be  quite 
frightened  to  hve  in  it.  How  often  and  often  have  I  wished 
myself  in  France  again  !  I  little  thought,  when  I  came  with  my 
lady  to  see  the  world,  that  I  should  ever  be  shut  up  in  such  a 
place  as  this,  or  I  would  never  have  left  my  own  country  !  This 
way,  ma'amselle,  down  this  turning.  I  can  almost  believe  in 
giants  again,  and  such  Hke,  for  this  is  just  Hke  one  of  their  castles  ; 
and  some  night  or  other,  I  suppose,  I  shall  see  fairies  too  hopping 
about  in  that  great  old  hall,  that  looks  more  Hke  a  church,  with 
its  huge  pillars,  than  anything  else.' 

'Yes/  said  Emily  smiling,  and  glad  to  escape  from  more  serious 
thought,  'if  we  come  to  the  corridor  about  midnight  and  look 
down  into  the  hall,  we  shall  certainly  see  it  illuminated  with  a 
thousand  lamps,  and  the  fairies  tripping  in  gay  circles  to  the 
sound  of  dehcious  music ;  for  it  is  in  such  places  as  this,  you 
know,  that  they  come  to  hold  their  revels.  But  I  am  afraid, 
Annette,  you  will  not  be  able  to  pay  the  necessary  penance  for 
such  a  sight :  and  if  once  they  hear  your  voice,  the  whole  scene 
will  vanish  in  an  instant.' 

*  O  !  if  you  will  bear  me  company,  ma'amselle,  I  will  come  to  the 
corridor  this  very  night,  and  I  promise  you  I  will  hold  my  tongue  ; 
it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  the  show  vanishes.  —  But  do  you  think 
they  will  come  ? ' 

'I  cannot  promise  that  with  certainty,  but  I  will  venture  to 
say  it  will  not  be  your  fault  if  the  enchantment  should  vanish.' 

'Well,  ma'amselle,  that  is  saying  more  than  I  expected  of  you  : 
but  I  am  not  so  much  afraid  of  fairies  as  of  ghosts  ;  and  they  say 
there  are  a  plentiful  many  of  them  about  the  castle;  now  I 
should  be  frightened  to  death  if  I  should  chance  to  see  any  of 
them.  But  hush,  ma'amselle,  walk  softly !  I  have  thought 
several  times  something  passed  by  me.' 

'Ridiculous  ! '  said  Emily  ;  'you  must  not  indulge  such  fancies.' 

'O  ma'am  ;  they  are  not  fancies,  for  aught  I  know ;  Benedetto 
says  these  dismal  galleries  and  halls  are  fit  for  nothing  but  ghosts 


^86  MRS.  ANN  RADCLIFFE 

to  live  in  ;  and  I  verily  believe,  if  I  live  long  in  them,  I  shall  turn 

to  one  myself ! ' 

'I  hope,'  said  Emily,  'you  will  not  suffer  Signor  Montoni 
to   hear   of   these   weak   fears;     they   would   highly   displease 

him.' 

'WTiat,  you  know  then,  ma'amselle,  all  about  it!'  rejoined 
Annette.  'No,  no,  I  do  know  better  than  to  do  so  ;  though,  if 
the  signor  can  sleep  sound,  nobody  else  in  the  castle  has  any 
right  to  lie  awake,  I  am  sure.'  Emily  did  not  appear  to  notice 
this  remark. 

'Down  this  passage,  ma'amselle;  this  leads  to  a  back 
staircase.  O  !  if  I  see  anything,  I  shall  be  frightened  out  of  my 
wits!' 

'That  will  scarcely  be  possible,'  said  Emily  smiling,  as  she 
followed  the  winding  of  the  passage  which  opened  into  another 
gallery  ;  and  then  Annette  perceiving  that  she  had  missed  her  way 
while  she  had  been  so  eloquently  haranguing  on  ghosts  and  fairies, 
wandered  about  through  other  passages  and  galleries,  till  at 
length,  frightened  by  their  intricacies  and  desolation,  she  called 
aloud  for  assistance :  but  they  were  beyond  the  hearing  of  the 
servants,  who  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  castle,  and  Emily 
now  opened  the  door  of  a  chamber  on  the  left. 

'O  !  do  not  go  in  there,  ma'amselle,'  said  Annette,  'you  will 
only  lose  yourself  further.' 

'Bring  the  light  forward,'  said  Emily,  'we  may  possibly  find 
our  way  through  these  rooms.' 

Annette  stood  at  the  door  in  an  attitude  of  hesitation,  with  the 
Hght  held  up  to  show  the  chamber,  but  the  feeble  rays  spread 
through  not  half  of  it.  'Why  do  you  hesitate?'  said  Emily; 
'let  me  see  whither  this  room  leads.' 

Annette  advanced  reluctantly.  It  opened  into  a  suite  of 
spacious  and  ancient  apartments,  some  of  which  were  hung  with 
tapestry,  and  others  wainscoted  with  cedar  and  black  larch- 
wood.  What  furniture  there  was,  seemed  to  be  almost  as  old  as 
the  rooms,  and  retained  an  appearance  of  grandeur,  though 
covered  with  dust,  and  dropping  to  pieces  with  damp  and  with 
age. 

'How  cold  these  rooms  are,  ma'amselle  !'  said  Annette:    'no- 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  587 

body  has  lived  in  them  for  many,  many  years,  they  say.  Do  let 
us  go.' 

'They  may  open  upon  the  great  staircase,  perhaps,'  said  Emily, 
passing  on  till  she  came  to  a  chamber  hung  with  pictures,  and 
took  the  light  to  examine  that  of  a  soldier  on  horseback  in  a  field 
of  battle.  — •  He  was  darting  his  spear  upon  a  man  who  lay  under 
the  feet  of  the  horse,  and  who  held  up  one  hand  in  a  supphcating 
attitude.  The  soldier,  whose  beaver  was  up,  regarded  him  with 
a  look  of  vengeance,  and  the  countenance,  with  that  expression, 
struck  Emily  as  resembhng  Montoni.  She  shuddered,  and 
turned  from  it.  Passing  the  light  hastily  over  several  other 
pictures,  she  came  to  one  concealed  by  a  veil  of  black  silk.  The 
singularity  of  the  circumstance  struck  her,  and  she  stopped 
before  it,  wishing  to  remove  the  veil,  and  examine  what  could 
thus  carefully  be  concealed,  but  somewhat  wanting  courage. 
'  Holy  Virgin !  what  can  this  mean  ? '  exclaimed  Annette.  '  This  is 
surely  the  picture  they  told  me  of  at  Venice.' 

'What  picture?'  said  Emily,  'Why,  a  picture  —  a  picture,' 
replied  Annette  hesitatingly,  '  —  but  I  never  could  make  out 
exactly  what  it  was  about  either.' 

'Remove  the  veil,  Annette.' 

'What!  I,  ma'amselle !  —  I!  not  for  the  world!'  Emily, 
turning  round,  saw  Annette's  countenance  grow  pale.  '  And  pray 
what  have  you  heard  of  this  picture  to  terrify  you  so,  my  good 
girl?'  said  she.  'Nothing,  ma'amselle:  I  have  heard  nothing, 
only  let  us  find  our  way  out.' 

'  Certainly,  but  I  wish  first  to  examine  the  picture ;  take  the 
light,  Annette,  while  I  lift  the  veil.  Annette  took  the  light,  and 
immediately  walked  away  with  it,  disregarding  Emily's  call  to 
stay,  who,  not  choosing  to  be  left  alone  in  the  dark  chamber,  at 
length  followed  her.  'What  is  the  reason  of  this,  Annette?' 
said  Emily,  when  she  overtook  her;  'what  have  you  heard 
concerning  that  picture,  which  makes  you  so  unwilling  to  stay 
when  I  bid  you  ? ' 

'I  don't  know  what  is  the  reason,  ma'amselle,'  rephed  Annette, 
'nor  any  thing  about  the  picture;  only  I  have  heard  there  is 
something  very  dreadful  belonging  to  it  —  and  that  it  has  been 
covered  up  in  black  ever  since  —  and  that  nobody  has  looked  at  it 


^88  MRS.  ANN  RADCLIFFE 

for  a  great  many  years  —  and  it  somehow  has  to  do  with  the 
owner  of  this  castle  before  Signor  Montoni  came  to  the  posses- 
sion of  it  —  and ' 

'Well,  Annette,'  said  Emily,  smiling,  'I  perceive  it  is  as  you 
say  —  that  you  know  nothing  about  the  picture.' 

'No,  nothing,  indeed,  ma'amselle,  for  they  made  me  promise 
never  to  tell :  —  but ' 

'Well,'  said  Emily,  who  perceived  that  she  was  struggling 
between  her  inclination  to  reveal  a  secret  and  her  apprehension 
for  the  consequence,  'I  will  inquire  no  further ' 

'No,  pray,  ma'am,  do  not.' 

'Lest  you  should  tell  all,'  interrupted  Emily. 

Annette  blushed,  and  Emily  smiled,  and  they  passed  on  to  the 
extremity  of  this  suite  of  apartments,  and  found  themselves,  after 
some  further  perplexity,  once  more  at  the  top  of  the  marble 
staircase,  where  Annette  left  Emily,  while  she  went  to  call  one 
of  the  servants  of  the  castle  to  show  them  to  the  chamber  for 
which  they  had  been  seeking. 

While  she  was  absent,  Emily's  thoughts  returned  to  the 
picture ;  an  unwilKngness  to  tamper  with  the  integrity  of  a 
servant  had  checked  her  inquiries  on  this  subject,  as  well  as  con- 
cerning some  alarming  hints  which  Annette  had  dropped  respect- 
ing Montoni :  though  her  curiosity  was  entirely  awakened,  and 
she  had  perceived  that  her  questions  might  easily  be  answered. 
She  was  now,  however,  incUned  to  go  back  to  the  apartment  and 
examine  the  picture ;  but  the  loneliness  of  the  hour  and  of  the 
place,  with  the  melancholy  silence  that  reigned  around  her,  con- 
spired with  a  certain  degree  of  awe,  excited  by  the  mystery  at- 
tending this  picture,  to  prevent  her.  She  determined,  however, 
when  daylight  should  have  reanimated  her  spirits,  to  go  thither 
and  remove  the  veil.  As  she  leaned  from  the  corridor  over  the 
staircase,  and  her  eyes  wandered  round,  she  again  observed  with 
wonder,  the  vast  strength  of  the  walls,  now  somewhat  decayed, 
and  the  pillars  of  solid  marble  that  rose  from  the  hall  and  sup- 
ported the  roof. 

A  ser\'ant  now  appeared  with  Annette,  and  conducted  Emily 
to  her  chamber,  which  was  in  a  remote  part  of  the  castle,  and  at 
the  very  end  of  the  corridor  from  whence  the  suite  of  apartments 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  589 

opened  through  which  they  had  been  wandering.  The  lonely 
aspect  of  her  room  made  Emily  unwilling  that  Annette  should 
leave  her  immediately,  and  the  dampness  of  it  chilled  her  with 
more  than  fear.  She  begged  Caterina,  the  servant  of  the  castle, 
to  bring  some  wood  and  light  a  hre. 

'Ay,  lady,  it's  many  a  year  since  a  fire  was  Hghted  here,'  said 
Caterina. 

'You  need  not  tell  us  that,  good  woman,'  said  Annette ;  'every 
room  in  the  castle  feels  Hke  a  well.  I  wonder  how  you  contrive  to 
live  here :  for  my  part,  I  wish  I  was  at  Venice  again.'  Emily 
waved  her  hand  for  Caterina  to  fetch  the  wood. 

'I  wonder,  ma'am,  why  they  call  this  the  double  chamber,' 
said  Annette,  while  Emily  surveyed  it  in  silence,  and  saw  that  it 
was  lofty  and  spacious  Uke  the  others  she  had  seen,  and,  like 
many  of  them,  too,  had  its  walls  lined  with  dark  larch-wood. 
The  bed  and  other  furniture  was  very  ancient,  and  had  an  air  of 
gloomy  grandeur,  like  all  she  had  seen  in  the  castle.  One  of  the 
high  casements,  which  she  opened,  overlooked  a  rampart,  but  the 
view  beyond  was  hid  in  darkness. 

In  the  presence  of  Annette,  Emily  tried  to  support  her  spirits, 
and  to  restrain  the  tears  which  every  now  and  then  came  to  her 
eyes.  She  wished  much  to  inquire  when  Count  Morano  was 
expected  at  the  castle ;  but  an  unwillingness  to  ask  unnecessary 
questions,  and  to  mention  family  concerns  to  a  servant,  withheld 
her.  Meanwhile,  Annette's  thoughts  were  engaged  upon  another 
subject :  she  dearly  loved  the  marvellous,  and  had  heard  of  a 
circumstance,  connected  with  the  castle,  that  highly  gratified 
this  taste.  Having  been  enjoined  not  to  mention  it,  her  inclina- 
tion to  tell  it  was  so  strong  that  she  was  every  instant  on  the  point 
of  speaking  what  she  had  heard ;  such  a  strange  circumstance, 
too,  and  to  be  obliged  to  conceal  it,  was  a  severe  punishment ; 
but  she  knew  that  Montoni  might  impose  one  much  severer,  and 
she  feared  to  incur  it  by  offending  him. 

Caterina  now  brought  the  wood,  and  its  bright  blaze  dispelled 
for  a  while  the  gloom  of  her  chamber.  She  told  Annette  that  her 
lady  had  inquired  for  her ;  and  Emily  was  once  again  left  to  her 
own  reflections.  Her  heart  was  not  yet  hardened  against  the 
stern  manners  of  Montoni,  and  she  was  nearly  as  much  shocked 


590  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

now,  as  she  had  been  when  she  first  witnessed  them.  The  ten- 
derness and  affection  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed  till  she 
lost  her  parents,  had  made  her  particularly  sensible  to  any 
degree  of  unkindness,  and  such  a  reverse  as  this  no  apprehension 
had  prepared  her  to  support. 

To  call  off  her  attention  from  subjects  that  pressed  heavily  on 
her  spirits,  she  rose  and  again  examined  her  room  and  its  furniture. 
As  she  walked  around  it  she  passed  a  door  that  was  not  quite  shut ; 
and  perceiving  that  it  was  not  the  one  through  which  she  entered, 
she  brought  the  light  forward  to  discover  whither  it  led.  She 
opened  it,  and,  going  forward,  had  nearly  fallen  down  a  steep 
narrow  staircase  that  wound  from  it,  between  two  stone  walls. 
She  wished  to  know  to  what  it  led,  and  was  the  more  anxious 
since  it  communicated  so  immediately  with  her  apartment ;  but 
she  wanted  courage  to  venture  into  the  darkness  alone.  Closing 
the  door,  therefore,  she  endeavoured  to  fasten  it,  but  upon 
further  examination  perceived  that  it  had  no  bolts  on  the  chamber 
side,  though  it  had  two  on  the  other.  By  placing  a  heavy  chair 
against  it,  she  in  some  measure  remedied  the  defect :  yet  she  was 
still  alarmed  at  the  thought  of  sleeping  in  this  remote  room 
alone,  with  a  door  opening  she  knew  not  whither,  and  which 
could  not  be  perfectly  fastened  on  the  inside.  Sometimes  she 
wished  to  entreat  of  Madame  Montoni  that  Annette  might 
have  leave  to  remain  with  her  all  night ;  but  was  deterred  by  an 
apprehension  of  betraying  what  would  be  thought  childish  fears 
and  by  an  unwillingness  to  increase  the  apt  terrors  of  Annette. 

Her  gloomy  reflections  were  soon  after  interrupted  by  a  foot- 
step in  the  corridor,  and  she  was  glad  to  see  Annette  enter  with 
some  supper  sent  by  Madame  Montoni.  Having  a  table  near 
the  fire,  she  made  the  good  girl  sit  down  and  sup  with  her ;  and 
when  their  little  repast  was  over,  Annette,  encouraged  by  her 
kindness,  and  stirring  the  wood  into  a  blaze,  drew  her  chair  upon 
the  hearth,  nearer  to  Emily,  and  said,  —  'Did  you  ever  hear, 
ma'amselle,  of  the  strange  accident  that  made  the  signor  lord  of 
this  castle  ? ' 

'  What  wonderful  story  have  you  now  to  tell  ? '  said  Emily, 
concealing  the  curiosity  occasioned  by  the  mysterious  hints  she 
had  formerly  heard  on  that  subject. 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  591 

'I  have  heard  all  about  it,  ma'amselle,'  said  Annette,  looking 
round  the  chamber  and  drawing  closer  to  Emily;  'Benedetto 
told  me  as  we  travelled  together:  says  he,  "Annette,  you  don't 
know  about  this  castle  here,  that  we  are  going  to?"  "No," 
says  I,  "Mr.  Benedetto,  pray  what  do  you  know?"  But, 
ma'amselle,  you  can  keep  a  secret,  or  I  would  not  tell  you  for  the 
world  ;  for  I  promised  never  to  tell,  and  they  say  that  the  signor 
does  not  Uke  to  have  it  talked  of.' 

'If  you  promised  to  keep  this  secret,'  said  Emily,  'you  do 
right  not  to  mention  it.' 

Annette  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said,  'O,  but  to  you, 
ma'amselle,  to  you  I  may  tell  it  safely,  I  know.' 

Emily  smiled  :  '  I  certainly  shall  keep  it  as  faithfully  as  yourself, 
Annette.' 

Annette  replied  very  gravely,  that  would  do,  and  proceeded  — 
'This  castle,  you  must  know,  ma'amselle,  is  very  old,  and  very 
strong,  and  has  stood  out  many  sieges  as  they  say.  Now  it  was 
not  Signor  Montoni's  always,  nor  his  father's  ;  no  :  but,  by  some 
law  or  other,  it  was  to  come  to  the  signor  if  the  lady  died  un- 
married.' 

'What  lady?'  said  Emily. 

'I  am  not  come  to  that  yet,'  replied  Annette :  'it  is  the  lady  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  about,  ma'amselle  :  but,  as  I  was  saying,  this 
lady  lived  in  the  castle,  and  had  everything  very  grand  about  her, 
as  you  may  suppose,  ma'amselle.  The  signor  used  often  to 
come  to  see  her,  and  was  in  love  with  her,  and  offered  to  marry 
her :  for,  though  he  was  somehow  related,  that  did  not  signify. 
But  she  was  in  love  with  somebody  else,  and  would  not  have 
him,  which  made  him  very  angry,  as  they  say;  and  you  know, 
ma'amselle,  what  an  ill-looking  gentleman  he  is  when  he  is  angry. 
Perhaps  she  saw  him  in  a  passion,  and  therefore  would  not  have 
him.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  she  was  very  melancholy  and  un- 
happy, and  all  that,  for  a  long  time,  and  —  Holy  Virgin  !  what 
noise  is  that?  did  not  you  hear  a  sound,  ma'amselle?' 

'It  was  only  the  wind,'  said  Emily ;  'but  do  come  to  the  end 
of  your  story.' 

'As  I  was  saying  —  O,  where  was  I  ?  — ■  as  I  was  saying  — •  she 
was  very  melancholy  and  unhappy  a  long  while,  and  used  to 


592  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

walk  about  upon  the  terrace,  there,  under  the  windows,  by  her- 
self, and  cry  so  !  it  would  have  done  your  heart  good  to  hear  her. 
That  is  —  I  don't  mean  good,  but  it  would  have  made  you  cry 
too,  as  they  tell  me.' 

'Well,  but,  Annette,  do  tell  me  the  substance  of  your  tale.' 

'All  in  good  time,  ma'am  :  all  this  I  heard  before  at  Venice, 
but  what  is  to  come  I  never  heard  till  to-day.  This  happened  a 
great  many  years  ago,  when  Signor  Montoni  was  quite  a  young 
man.  The  lady  —  they  called  her  Signora  Laurentini,  was  very 
handsome,  but  she  used  to  be  in  great  passions  too,  sometimes, 
as  well  as  the  signor.  Finding  he  could  not  make  her  Hsten  to 
him  —  what  does  he  do,  but  leave  the  castle,  and  never  comes 
near  it  for  a  long  time  !  but  it  was  all  one  to  her ;  she  was  just  as 
unhappy  whether  he  was  here  or  not,  till  one  evening  —  Holy 
St.  Peter!  ma'amselle,'  cried  Annette,  'look  at  that  lamp,  see 
how  blue  it  burns  ! '  She  looked  fearfully  round  the  chamber. 
'Ridiculous  girl!'  said  Emily,  'why  will  you  indulge  those 
fancies?     Pray  let  me  hear  the  end  of  your  story,  I  am  weary.' 

Annette  still  kept  her  eyes  on  the  lamp,  and  proceeded  in  a 
lower  voice.  'It  was  one  evening,  they  say,  at  the  latter  end  of 
the  year,  it  might  be  about  the  middle  of  September,  I  suppose, 
or  the  beginning  of  October ;  nay,  for  that  matter,  it  might  be 
November,  for  that,  too,  is  the  latter  end  of  the  year ;  but  that  I 
cannot  say  for  certain,  because  they  did  not  tell  me  for  certain 
themselves.  However,  it  was  at  the  latter  end  of  the  year,  this 
grand  lady  walked  out  of  the  castle  into  the  woods  below,  as  she 
had  often  done  before,  all  alone,  only  her  maid  was  with  her. 
The  wind  blew  cold,  and  strewed  the  leaves  about,  and  whistled 
dismally  among  those  great  old  chestnut-trees  that  we  passed, 
ma'amselle,  as  we  came  to  the  castle  —  for  Benedetto  showed  me 
the  trees  as  he  was  talking  —  the  wind  blew  cold,  and  her  woman 
would  have  persuaded  her  to  return :  but  all  would  not  do,  for 
she  was  fond  of  walking  in  the  woods  at  evening  time,  and  if  the 
leaves  were  faUing  about  her,  so  much  the  better. 

'Well,  they  saw  her  go  down  among  the  woods,  but  night  came, 
and  she  did  not  return;  ten  o'clock,  eleven  o'clock,  twelve 
o'clock  came,  and  no  lady  !  Well,  the  servants  thought,  to  be 
sure,  some  accident  had  befallen  her,  and  they  went  out  to  seek 


THE    MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  593 

her.  They  searched  all  night  long,  but  could  not  find  her,  or 
any  trace  of  her  :  and,  from  that  day  to  this,  ma'amselle,  she  has 
never  been  heard  of.'    . 

'Is  this  true,  Annette  ?'  said  Emily  in  much  surprise. 

'True,  ma'am  !'  said  Annette  with  a  look  of  horror,  'yes,  it  is 
true,  indeed.  But  they  do  say,'  she  added,  lowering  her  voice, 
'  they  do  say,  that  the  signora  has  been  seen  several  times  since 
walking  in  the  woods  and  about  the  castle  in  the  night :  several 
of  the  old  servants,  who  remained  here  some  time  after,  declare 
they  saw  her ;  and  since  then,  she  has  been  seen  by  some  of  the 
vassals,  who  have  happened  to  be  in  the  castle  at  night.  Carlo 
the  old  steward  could  tell  such  things,  they  say,  if  he  would  ! ' 

'How  contradictory  is  this,  Annette!'  said  Emily;  'you  say 
nothing  has  been  since  known  of  her,  and  yet  she  has  been  seen  !' 

'But  all  this  was  told  me  for  a  great  secret,'  rejoined  Annette, 
without  noticing  the  remark,  'and  I  arti  sure,  ma'am,  you  would 
not  hurt  either  me  or  Benedetto,  so  much  as  to  go  and  tell  it 
again.'  Emily  remained  silent,  and  Annette  repeated  her  last 
sentence. 

'You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  my  indiscretion,'  replied  Emily  ; 
'and  let  me  advise  you,  my  good  Annette,  be  discreet  yourself, 
and  never  mention  what  you  have  just  told  me  to  any  other 
person.  Signer  Montoni,  as  you  say,  may  be  angry  if  he  hears  of 
it,  but  what  inquiries  were  made  concerning  the  lady  ?' 

'O  !  a  great  deal,  indeed,  ma'amselle,  for  the  signor  laid  claim 
to  the  castle  directly,  as  being  the  next  heir;  and  they  said,  that 
is,  the  judges,  or  the  senators,  or  somebody  of  that  sort,  said,  he 
could  not  take  possession  of  it  till  so  many  years  were  gone  by, 
and  then,  if  after  all  the  lady  could  not  be  found,  why  she  would 
be  as  good  as  dead,  and  the  castle  would  be  his  own  ;  and  so  it  is 
his  own.  But  the  story  went  round,  and  many  strange  reports 
were  spread,  so  very  strange,  ma'amselle,  that  I  shall  not  tell 
them.' 

'That  is  stranger  still,  Annette,'  said  Emily  smiling,  and  rous- 
ing herself  from  her  reverie.  '  But  when  Signora  Laurentini  was 
afterwards  seen  in  the  castle,  did  nobody  speak  to  her  ? ' 

'  Speak  —  speak  to  her  ! '  cried  Annette  with  a  look  of  terror ; 
'no,  to  be  sure.' 


594  MRS.  ANN   RADCLIFFE 

'And  why  not  ?'  rejoined  Emily,  willing  to  hear  further. 

'Holy  Mother  !  speak  to  a  spirit !' 

'But  what  reason  had  they  to  conclude  it  was  a  spirit,  unless 
they  had  approached  and  spoken  to  it  ? ' 

'O  ma'amselle,  I  cannot  tell.  How  can  you  ask  such  shocking 
questions  ?  But  nobody  ever  saw  it  come  in  or  go  out  of  the 
castle ;  and  it  was  in  one  place  now,  and  then  the  next  minute  in 
quite  another  part  of  the  castle ;  and  then  it  never  spoke,  and  if 
it  was  alive,  what  should  it  do  in  the  castle  if  it  never  spoke? 
Several  parts  of  the  castle  have  never  been  gone  into  since,  they 
say  for  that  very  reason.' 

'What,  because  it  never  spoke,'  said  Emily,  trying  to  laugh 
away  the  fears  that  began  to  steal  upon  her. 

'No,  ma'amselle,  no,'  repHed  Annette  rather  angrily:  'but 
because  something  has  been  seen  there.  They  say,  too,  there  is 
an  old  chapel  adjoining  the  west  side  of  the  castle,  where  any 
time  at  midnight  you  may  hear  such  groans  !  —  it  makes  one 
shudder  to  think  of  them ;  —  and  strange  sights  have  been  seen 
there ' 

'Pr'ythee,  Annette,  no  more  of  these  silly  tales,'  said  Emily. 

'Silly  tales,  ma'amselle  !  O,  but  I  will  tell  you  one  story  about 
this,  if  you  please,  that  Caterina  told  me.  It  was  one  cold 
winter's  night  that  Caterina  (she  often  came  to  the  castle  then, 
she  says,  to  keep  old  Carlo  and  his  wife  company,  and  so  he 
recommended  her  afterwards  to  the  signor,  and  she  has  lived  here 
ever  since)  —  Caterina  was  sitting  with  them  in  the  Httle  hall : 
says  Carlo,  "I  wish  we  had  some  of  those  figs  to  roast,  that  lie  in 
the  store-closet,  but  it  is  a  long  way  off,  and  I  am  loth  to  fetch 
them;  do,  Caterina,"  says  he,  "for  you  are  young  and  nimble, 
do  bring  us  some,  the  fire  is  in  nice  trim  for  roasting  them  ;  they 
lie,"  says  he,  "in  such  a  corner  of  the  store-room,  at  the  end  of  the 
north  gallery  ;  here,  take  the  lamp,"  says  he,  "and  mind,  as  you 
go  up  the  great  staircase,  that  the  wind  through  the  roof  does 
not  blow  it  out."  So  with  that  Caterina  took  the  lamp  —  Hush  ! 
ma'amselle,  I  surely  heard  a  noise.' 

Emily,  whom  Annette  had  now  infected  with  her  own  terrors, 
listened  attentively ;  but  everything  was  still,  and  Annette  pro- 
ceeded : 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  595 

'Caterina  went  to  the  north  gallery,  that  is,  the  wide  gallery 
we  passed,  ma'am,  before  we  came  to  the  corridor,  here.     As  she 

went  with  the  lamp  in  her  hand,  thinking  of  nothing  at  all 

There,  again  ! '  cried  Annette  suddenly  —  '  I  heard  it  again  !  — 
it  was  not  fancy,  ma'amselle  ! ' 

'Hush!'  said  Emily,  trembling.  They  listened,  and  con- 
tinuing to  sit  quite  stilly  Emily  heard  a  slow  knocking  against  the 
wall.  It  came  repeatedly.  Annette  then  screamed  loudly,  and 
the  chamber  door  slowly  opened.  —  It  was  Caterina,  come  to  tell 
Annette  that  her  lady  wanted  her.  Emily,  though  she  now 
perceived  who  it  was,  could  not  immediately  overcome  her 
terror ;  while  Annette,  half  laughing,  half  crying,  scolded  Cate- 
rina heartily  for  thus  alarming  them ;  and  was  also  terrified  lest 
what  she  had  told  had  been  overheard.  —  Emily,  whose  mind  was 
deeply  impressed  by  the  chief  circumstance  of  Annette's  rela- 
tion, was  unwilling  to  be  left  alone,  in  the  present  state  of  her 
spirits ;  but  to  avoid  offending  Madame  Montoni  and  betraying 
her  own  weakness,  she  struggled  to  overcome  the  illusions  of  fear, 
and  dismissed  Annette  for  the  night. 

When  she  was  alone,  her  thoughts  recurred  to  the  strange  his- 
tory of  Signora  Laurentini,  and  then  to  her  own  strange  situation, 
in  the  wild  and  solitary  mountains  of  a  foreign  country,  in  the 
castle  and  the  power  of  a  man  to  whom  only  a  few  preceding 
months  she  was  an  entire  stranger ;  who  had  already  exercised 
an  usurped  authority  over  her,  and  whose  character  she  now 
regarded  with  a  degree  of  terror  apparently  justified  by  the  fears 
of  others.  She  knew  that  he  had  invention  equal  to  the  concep- 
tion, and  talents  to  the  execution,  of  any  project,  and  she  greatly 
feared  he  had  a  heart  too  void  of  feeling  to  oppose  the  perpetra- 
tion of  whatever  his  interest  might  suggest.  She  had  long  ob- 
served the  unhappiness  of  Madame  Montoni,  and  had  often  been 
witness  to  the  stern  and  contemptuous  behaviour  she  received 
from  her  husband.  To  these  circumstances,  which  conspired  to 
give  her  just  cause  for  alarm,  were  now  added  those  thousand 
nameless  terrors  which  exist  only  in  active  imaginations,  and 
which  set  reason  and  examination  equally  at  defiance. 

Emily  remembered  all  that  Valancourt  had  told  her,  on  the 
eve  of  her  departure  from  Languedoc,  respecting  Montoni,  and 


596  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

all  that  he  had  said  to  dissuade  her  from  venturing  on  the  journey. 
His  fears  had  often  since  appeared  to  her  prophetic  —  now  they 
seemed  confirmed.  Her  heart,  as  it  gave  her  back  the  image  of 
Valancourt,  mourned  in  vain  regret ;  but  reason  soon  came  with  a 
consolation,  which,  though  feeble  at  first,  acquired  vigour  from 
reflection.  She  considered  that,  whatever  might  be  her  suffer- 
ings, she  had  withheld  from  involving  him  in  misfortune,  and 
that  whatever  her  future  sorrows  could  be,  she  was  at  least  free 
from  self-reproach. 

Her  melancholy  was  assisted  by  the  hollow  sighings  of  the 
wind  along  the  corridor  and  round  the  castle.  The  cheerful  blaze 
of  the  wood  had  long  been  extinguished,  and  she  sat  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  dying  embers,  till  a  loud  gust,  that  swept  through 
the  corridor,  and  shook  the  doors  and  casements,  alarmed  her ; 
for  its  violence  had  moved  the  chair  she  had  placed  as  a  fastening, 
and  the  door  leading  to  the  private  staircase  stood  half  open. 
Her  curiosity  and  her  fears  were  again  awakened.  She  took  the 
lamp  to  the  top  of  the  steps,  and  stood  hesitating  whether  to  go 
down ;  but  again  the  profound  stillness  and  the  gloom  of  the 
place  awed  her ;  and  determining  to  inquire  further  when  day- 
light might  assist  the  search,  she  closed  the  door,  and  placed 
against  it  a  stronger  guard. 

She  now  retired  to  her  bed,  leaving  the  lamp  burning  on  the 
table ;  but  its  gloomy  light,  instead  of  dispelling  her  fear,  assisted 
it ;  for,  by  its  uncertain  rays,  she  almost  fancied  she  saw  shapes 
flit  past  her  curtains,  and  glide  into  the  remote  obscurity  of  her 
chamber.  —  The  castle  clock  struck  one  before  she  closed  her 
eyes  to  sleep. 

CHAPTER  XX 

Daylight  dispelled  from  Emily's  mind  the  glooms  of  super- 
stition, but  not  those  of  apprehension.  The  Count  Morano  was 
the  first  image  that  occurred  to  her  waking  thoughts,  and  then 
came  a  train  of  anticipated  evils  which  she  could  neither  conquer 
nor  avoid. 

To  withdraw  her  thoughts,  however,  from  the  subject  of  her 
misfortunes,  she  attempted  to  read  ;  but  her  attention  wandered 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  597 

from  the  page,  and  at  length  she  threw  aside  the  book,  and  de- 
termined to  explore  the  adjoining  chambers  of  the  castle.  Her 
imagination  was  pleased  with  the  view  of  ancient  grandeur,  and 
an  emotion  of  melancholy  awe  awakened  all  its  powers,  as  she 
walked  through  rooms  obscure  and  desolate,  where  no  footsteps 
had  passed  probably  for  many  years,  and  remembered  the  strange 
history  of  the  former  possessor  of  the  edifice.  This  brought  to 
her  recollection  the  veiled  picture  which  had  attracted  her 
curiosity  on  the  preceding  night,  and  she  resolved  to  examine  it. 
As  she  passed  through  the  chambers  that  led  to  this,  she  found 
herself  somewhat  agitated ;  its  connexion  with  the  late  lady  of 
the  castle,  and  the  conversation  of  Annette,  together  with 
the  circumstance  of  the  veil,  throwing  a  mystery  over  the  object 
that  excited  a  faint  degree  of  terror.  But  a  terror  of  this  nature, 
as  it  occupies  and  expands  the  mind,  and  elevates  it  to  high 
expectation,  is  purely  sublime,  and  leads  us,  by  a  kind  of  fascina- 
tion, to  seek  even  the  object  from  which  we 'appear  to  shrink. 

Emily  passed  on  with  faltering  steps ;  and  having  paused  a 
moment  at  the  door  before  she  attempted  to  open  it,  she  then 
hastily  entered  the  chamber,  and  went  towards  the  picture,  which 
appeared  to  be  enclosed  in  a  frame  of  uncommon  size,  that  hung 
in  a  dark  part  of  the  room.  She  paused  again,  and  then  with  a 
timid  hand  lifted  the  veil ;  but  instantly  let  it  fall  —  perceiving 
that  what  it  had  concealed  was  no  picture,  and  before  she  could 
leave  the  chamber  she  dropped  senseless  on  the  floor. 

When  she  recovered  her  recollection,  the  remembrance  of  what 
she  had  seen  had  nearly  deprived  her  of  it  a  second  time.  She 
had  scarcely  strength  to  remove  from  the  room,  and  regain  her 
own ;  and  when  arrived  there,  wanted  courage  to  remain  alone. 
Horror  occupied  her  mind,  and  excluded  for  a  time  all  sense  of 
past  and  dread  of  future  misfortune  :  she  seated  herself  near  the 
casement  because  from  thence  she  heard  voices,  though  distant, 
on  the  terrace,  and  might  see  people  pass ;  and  these,  trifling  as 
they  were,  were  reviving  circumstances.  When  her  spirits  had 
recovered  their  tone,  she  considered  whether  she  should  mention 
when  she  had  seen  to  Madame  Montoni ;  and  various  and  impor- 
tant motives  urged  her  to  do  so,  among  which  the  least  was  the 
hope  of  the  relief  which  an  overburdened  mind  finds  in  speak- 


598  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

ing  of  the  subjects  of  its  interest.  But  she  was  aware  of  the  terri- 
ble consequences  which  such  a  communication  might  lead  to ; 
and,  dreading  the  indiscretion  of  her  aunt,  at  length  endeavoured 
to  arm  herself  with  resolution  to  observe  a  profound  silence  on 
the  subject. 

{Emily  finds  herself  a  prisoner  in  Udolpho,  and  a  victim  of  the  persecutions 
of  Montoni.  After  sujfcring  many  terrifying  experiences  both  at  the  hands  of 
her  tormentor  and  because  of  the  mysterious  character  of  the  place,  she 
manages,  with  the  help  of  two  servants  and  of  M.  Du  Pont,  also  a  prisoner, 
to  make  her  escape  and  return  to  France.\ 

PART  II.     CHAPTER  XXXVI 


Blanche^  soon  after  went  to  dress  for  dinner,  at  which  the  whole 
party  met  in  good  spirits  and  good  humour,  except  the  countess, 
whose  vacant  mind,  overcome  by  the  langour  of  idleness,  would 
neither  suffer  her  to  be  happy  herself,  or  to  contribute  to  the 
happiness  of  others.  Mademoiselle  Beam,  attempting  to  be 
witty,  directed  her  badinage  against  Henri ;  who  answered  be- 
cause he  could  not  well  avoid  it,  rather  than  from  any  inchnation 
to  notice  her,  whose  liveliness  sometimes  amused,  but  whose 
conceit  and  insensibility  often  disgusted  him. 

The  cheerfulness  with  which  Blanche  rejoined  the  party 
vanished  on  her  reaching  the  margin  of  the  sea ;  she  gazed  with 
apprehension  upon  the  vast  expanse  of  waters  which,  at  a  dis- 
tance, she  had  beheld  only  with  dehght  and  astonishment ;  and 
it  was  by  a  strong  effort  that  she  so  far  overcame  her  fears  as  to 
follow  her  father  into  the  boat. 

As  she  silently  surveyed  the  vast  horizon  bending  round  the 
distant  verge  of  the  ocean,  an  emotion  of  sublimest  rapture 
struggled  to  overcome  a  sense  of  personal  danger.  A  light 
breeze  played  on  the  water  and  on  the  silk  awning  of  the  boat, 
and  waved  the  foliage  of  the  receding  woods  that  crowned  the 
cliffs  for  many  miles,  and  which  the  count  surveyed  with  the 
pride  of  conscious  property,  as  well  as  with  the  eye  of  taste. 

1  Blanche  and  Henri  are  the  children  of  Count  and  Countess  de  Villefort,  gentry  of 
Languedoc.     Mile.  Beam  is  the  companion  of  the  Countess. 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  599 

At  some  distance  among  these  woods  stood  a  pavilion,  which 
had  once  been  the  scene  of  social  gaiety,  and  which  its  situation 
still  made  one  of  romantic  beauty.  Thither  the  count  had 
ordered  coffee  and  other  refreshments  to  be  carried ;  and  thither 
the  sailors  now  steered  their  course,  following  the  windings  of  the 
shore  round  many  a  woody  promontory  and  circling  bay ;  while 
the  pensive  tones  of  horns  and  other  wind  instruments,  played  by 
the  attendants  in  a  distant  boat,  echoed  among  the  rocks,  and 
died  along  the  waves.  Blanche  had  now  subdued  her  fears ;  a 
delightful  tranquillity  stole  over  her  mind,  and  held  her  in  silence ; 
and  she  was  too  happy  to  remember  even  the  convent,  or  her 
former  sorrows,  as  subjects  of  comparison  with  her  present 
felicity. 

The  countess  felt  less  unhappy  than  she  had  done  since  the 
moment  of  her  leaving  Paris  ;  for  her  mind  was  now  under  some 
degree  of  restraint.  She  feared  to  indulge  its  wayward  hu- 
mours, and  even  wished  to  recover  the  count's  good  opinion.  On 
his  family,  and  on  the  surrounding  scene,  he  looked  with  tem- 
pered pleasure  and  benevolent  satisfaction,  while  his  son  exhibited 
the  gay  spirits  of  youth,  anticipating  new  delights,  and  regretless 
of  those  that  were  passed. 

After  near  an  hour's  rowing,  the  party  landed,  and  ascended  a 
little  path  overgrown  with  vegetation.  At  a  little  distance  from 
the  point  of  the  eminence,  within  the  shadowy  recess  of  the  woods, 
appeared  the  pavilion,  which  Blanche  perceived,  as  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  its  portico  between  the  trees,  to  be  built  of  variegated 
marble.  As  she  followed  the  countess,  she  often  turned  her  eyes 
with  rapture  towards  the  ocean,  seen  beneath  the  dark  foliage 
far  below,  and  from  thence  upon  the  deep  woods,  whose  silence 
and  impenetrable  gloom  awakened  emotions  more  solemn,  but 
scarcely  less  delightful. 

The  pavilion  had  been  prepared,  as  far  as  was  possible  on  a  very 
short  notice,  for  the  reception  of  its  visitors ;  but  the  faded 
colours  of  its  painted  walls  and  ceihng,  and  the  decayed  drapery 
of  its  once  magnificent  furniture,  declared  how  long  it  had  been 
neglected  and  abandoned  to  the  empire  of  the  changing  seasons. 
While  the  party  partook  of  a  collation  of  fruit  and  coffee,  the 
horns,  placed  in  a  distant  part  of  the  woods  where  an  echo 


6oo  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

sweetened  and  prolonged  their  melancholy  tones,  broke  softly 
on  the  stillness  of  the  scene.  .  .  .  One  window  opened  upon  a 
romantic  glade,  where  the  eye  roved  among  woody  recesses, 
and  the  scene  was  bounded  only  by  a  lengthened  pomp  of  groves ; 
from  another  the  woods  receding  disclosed  the  distant  summits 
of  the  Pyrenees ;  a  third  fronted  an  avenue,  beyond  which  the 
gray  towers  of  Chateau-le-Blanc  and  the  picturesque  part  of  its 
ruin  were  seen  partially  among  the  foliage ;  while  a  fourth  gave, 
between  the  trees,  a  glimpse  of  the  green  pastures  and  villages 
that  diversify  the  banks  of  the  Aude.  The  Mediterranean, 
with  the  bold  cliffs  that  overlooked  its  shores,  were  the  grand 
objects  of  a  fifth  window ;  and  the  others  gave,  in  different  points 
of  view,  the  wild  scenery  of  the  woods. 

After  wandering  for  some  time  in  these,  the  party  returned 
to  the  shore,  and  embarked ;  and,  the  beauty  of  the  evening 
tempting  them  to  extend  their  excursion,  they  proceeded  further 
up  the  bay.  A  dead  calm  had  succeeded  the  light  breeze  that 
wafted  them  hither,  and  the  men  took  to  their  oars.  Around, 
the  waters  were  spread  into  one  vast  expanse  of  poHshed  mirror, 
reflecting  the  gray  cHffs  and  feathery  woods  that  overhung 
its  surface,  the  glow  of  the  western  horizon,  and  the  dark  clouds 
that  came  slowly  from  the  east.  Blanche  loved  to  see  the 
dipping  oars  imprint  the  water,  and  to  watch  the  spreading  circles 
they  left,  which  gave  a  tremulous  motion  to  the  reflected  land- 
scape, without  destroying  the  harmony  of  its  features. 

Above  the  darkness  of  the  woods,  her  eye  now  caught  a  cluster 
of  high  towers  touched  with  the  splendour  of  the  setting  rays ; 
and  soon  after,  the  horns  being  then  silent,  she  heard  the  faint 
swell  of  choral  voices  from  a  distance. 

'What  voices  are  those  upon  the  air?'  said  the  count,  looking 
round  and  Hstening;  — but  the  strain  had  ceased.  'It  seemed 
to  be  a  vesper  hymn  which  I  have  often  heard  in  my  convent,' 
said  Blanche. 

'We  are  near  the  monastery,  then,'  observed  the  count; 
and  the  boat  soon  after  doubHng  a  lofty  headland,  the  monastery 
of  St.  Claire  appeared,  seated  near  the  margin  of  the  sea ;  where 
the  cHfTs  suddenly  sinking  formed  a  low  shore  within  a  small  bay 
almost  encircled  with  woods,  among  which  partial  features  of 


THE   MYSTERIES  OF   UDOLPHO  6oi 

the  edifice  were  seen  —  the  great  gate  and  Gothic  window  of  the 
hall,  the  cloisters,  and  the  side  of  a  chapel  more  remote ;  while 
a  venerable  arch,  which  had  once  led  to  a  part  of  the  fabric 
now  demoHshed,  stood  a  majestic  ruin,  detached  from  the  main 
building,  beyond  which  appeared  a  grand  perspective  of  the 
woods.  On  the  grey  walls  the  moss  had  fastened,  and  round  the 
pointed  windows  of  the  chapel  the  ivy  and  the  briony  hung  in 
many  a  fantastic  wreath. 

All  without  was  silent  and  forsaken :  but  while  Blanche  gazed 
with  admiration  on  this  venerable  pile,  whose  effect  was  height- 
ened by  the  strong  lights  and  shadows  thrown  athwart  it  by  a 
cloudy  sunset,  a  sound  of  many  voices,  slowly  chanting,  arose 
from  within.  The  count  bade  his  men  rest  on  their  oars.  The 
monks  were  singing  the  hymn  of  vespers,  and  some  female  voices 
mingled  with  the  strain  ;  which  rose,  by  soft  degrees,  till  the  high 
organ  and  the  choral  sounds  swelled  into  full  and  solemn  harmony. 
The  strain  soon  after  dropped  into  sudden  silence,  and  was 
renewed  in  a  low  and  still  more  solemn  key  ;  till  at  length  the  holy 
chorus  died  away,  and  was  heard  no  more.  —  Blanche  sighed ; 
tears  trembled  in  her  eyes  ;  and  her  thoughts  seemed  wafted  with 
the  sounds  to  heaven.  While  a  rapt  stillness  prevailed  in  the 
boat,  a  train  of  friars,  and  then  of  nuns  veiled  in  white,  issued  from 
the  cloisters,  and  passed  under  the  shade  of  the  woods  to  the  main 
body  of  the  edifice. 

The  countess  was  the  first  of  her  party  to  awaken  from  this 
pause  of  silence. 

'These  dismal  hymns  and  friars  make  one  quite  melancholy,' 
said  she ;  '  twilight  is  coming  on  :  pray  let  us  return,  or  it  will  be 
dark  before  we  get  home.' 

The  count,  looking  up,  now  perceived  that  the  twilight  of 
evening  was  anticipated  by  an  approaching  storm.  In  the  east 
a  tempest  was  collecting  :  a  heavy  gloom  came  on,  opposing  and 
contrasting  the  glowing  splendour  of  the  setting  sun  :  the  clamor- 
ous sea-fowl  skimmed  in  fleet  circles  upon  the  surface  of  the  sea, 
dipping  their  light  pinions  in  the  wave,  as  they  fled  away  in  search 
of  shelter.  The  boatmen  pulled  hard  at  their  oars.  But  the 
thunder  that  now  muttered  at  a  distance,  and  the  heavy  drops 
that  began  to  dimple  the  water,  made  the  count  determine  to 


6o2  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

put  back  to  the  monastery  for  shelter ;  and  the  course  of  the 
boat  was  immediately  changed.  As  the  clouds  approached  the 
west,  their  lurid  darkness  changed  to  a  deep  ruddy  glow,  which, 
by  reflection,  seemed  to  fire  the  tops  of  the  woods  and  the 
shattered  towers  of  the  monastery. 

The  appearance  of  the  heavens  alarmed  the  countess  and 
Mademoiselle  Beam;  whose  expressions  of  apprehension  dis- 
tressed the  count,  and  perplexed  his  men ;  while  Blanche  con- 
tinued silent  —  now  agitated  with  fear,  and  now  with  admiration, 
as  she  viewed  the  grandeur  of  the  clouds,  and  their  effect  on  the 
scenery,  and  Hstened  to  the  long,  long  peals  of  thunder  that 
rolled  through  the  air. 

The  boat  having  reached  the  lawn  before  the  monastery,  the 
count  sent  a  servant  to  announce  his  arrival,  and  to  entreat 
shelter  of  the  superior;  who  soon  after  appeared  at  the  great 
gate  attended  by  several  monks.  The  party  immediately 
disembarked ;  and  having  hastily  crossed  the  lawn  —  for  the 
shower  was  now  heavy  —  were  received  at  the  gate  by  the 
superior ;  who,  as  they  entered,  stretched  forth  his  hand  and  gave 
his  blessing ;  and  they  passed  into  the  great  hall,  where  the  lady- 
abbess  waited,  attended  by  several  nuns  clothed,  like  herself, 
in  black,  and  veiled  in  white.  The  veil  of  the  abbess  was, 
however,  thrown  half  back,  and  discovered  a  countenance 
whose  chaste  dignity  was  sweetened  by  the  smile  of  welcome 
with  which  she  addressed  the  countess ;  whom  she  led  with 
Blanche  and  Mademoiselle  Beam  into  the  convent  parlour, 
while  the  count  and  Henri  were  conducted  by  the  superior  to 
the  refectory. 

While  the  lady-abbess  ordered  refreshment,  and  conversed 
with  the  countess,  Blanche  withdrew  to  a  window ;  the  lower 
panes  of  which  being  without  painting,  allowed  her  to  observe 
the  progress  of  the  storm  over  the  Mediterranean ;  whose  dark 
waves,  that  had  so  lately  slept,  now  came  boldly  swelling  in 
long  succession  to  the  shore,  where  they  burst  in  white  foam, 
and  threw  up  a  high  spray  over  the  rocks.  A  red  sulphureous 
tint  overspread  the  long  line  of  clouds  that  hung  above  the 
western  horizon ;  beneath  whose  dark  skirts  the  sun  looking 
out  illumined  the  distant  shores  of  Languedoc,  as  well  as  the 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  603 

tufted  summits  of  the  nearer  woods,  and  shed  a  partial  gleam 
on  the  western  waves.  The  rest  of  the  scene  was  in  deep  gloom, 
except  where  a  sunbeam,  darting  between  the  clouds,  glanced 
on  the  white  wings  of  the  sea-fowl  that  circled  high  among  them, 
or  touched  the  swelhng  sail  of  a  vessel  which  was  seen  labouring 
in  the  storm.  Blanche  for  some  time  anxiously  watched  the 
progress  of  the  bark  as  it  threw  the  waves  in  foam  around  it ; 
and,  as  the  Hghtnings  flashed,  looked  to  the  opening  heavens 
with  many  a  sigh  for  the  fate  of  the  poor  mariners. 

The  sun  at  length  set,  and  the  heavy  clouds  which  had  long 
impended,  dropped  over  the  splendour  of  his  course ;  the  vessel, 
however,  was  yet  dimly  seen ;  and  Blanche  continued  to  observe 
it,  till  the  quick  succession  of  flashes,  lighting  up  the  gloom  of 
the  whole  horizon,  warned  her  to  retire  from  the  window,  and 
she  joined  the  abbess ;  who,  having  exhausted  all  her  topics  of 
conversation  with  the  countess,  had  now  leisure  to  notice  her. 

But  their  discourse  was  interrupted  by  tremendous  peals  of 
thunder ;  and  the  bell  of  the  monastery  soon  after  ringing  out, 
summoned  the  inhabitants  to  prayer.  As  Blanche  passed  the 
windows  she  gave  another  look  to  the  ocean ;  where,  by  the 
momentary  flash  that  illumined  the  vast  body  of  the  waters, 
she  distinguished  the  vessel  she  had  observed  before,  amidst  a 
sea  of  foam,  breaking  the  billows  — ■  the  mast  now  bowing  to  the 
waves  and  then  rising  high  in  air. 

She  sighed  fervently  as  she  gazed,  and  then  followed  the  lady- 
abbess  and  the  countess  to  the  chapel.  Meanwhile  some  of  the 
count's  servants,  having  gone  by  land  to  the  chateau  for  carriages, 
returned  soon  after  vespers  had  concluded ;  when,  the  storm 
being  somewhat  abated,  the  count  and  his  family  returned  home. 
Blanche  was  surprised  to  discover  how  much  the  windings  of 
the  shore  had  deceived  her  concerning  the  distance  of  the  chateau 
from  the  monastery ;  whose  vesper  bell  she  had  heard  on  the 
preceding  evening  from  the  windows  of  the  west  saloon,  and  whose 
towers  she  would  also  have  seen  from  thence,  had  not  twihght 
veiled  them. 

On  their  arrival  at  the  chateau,  the  countess,  affecting  more 
fatigue  than  she  really  felt,  withdrew  to  her  apartment,  and  the 
count,  with  his  daughter  and  Henri,  went  to  the  supper-room ; 


6o4  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

where  they  had  not  been  long  when  they  heard,  in  a  pause  of 
the  gust,  a  firing  of  guns ;  which  the  count  understanding  to  be 
signals  of  distress  from  some  vessel  in  the  storm,  went  to  a 
window  that  opened  towards  the  Mediterranean,  to  observe 
further ;  but  the  sea  was  now  involved  in  utter  darkness,  and  the 
loud  howlings  of  the  tempest  had  again  overcome  every  other 
sound.  Blanche,  remembering  the  bark  which  she  had  before 
seen,  now  joined  her  father  with  trembling  anxiety.  In  a  few 
moments  the  report  of  guns  was  again  borne  along  the  wind, 
and  as  suddenly  wafted  away ;  a  tremendous  burst  of  thunder 
followed ;  and  in  the  flash  that  had  preceded  it,  and  which 
seemed  to  quiver  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  waters,  a  vessel 
was  discovered,  tossing  amidst  the  white  foam  of  the  waves, 
at  some  distance  from  the  shore.  Impenetrable  darkness  again 
involved  the  scene ;  but  soon  a  second  flash  showed  the  bark, 
with  one  sail  unfurled,  driving  towards  the  coast.  Blanche 
hung  upon  her  father's  arm  with  looks  full  of  the  agony  of 
united  terror  and  pity ;  which  were  unnecessary  to  awaken  the 
heart  of  the  count,  who  gazed  upon  the  sea  with  a  piteous  expres- 
sion, and,  perceiving  that  no  boat  could  live  in  the  storm,  forbore 
to  send  one  ;  but  he  gave  orders  to  his  people  to  carry  torches  out 
upon  the  cliff  —  hoping  they  might  prove  a  kind  of  beacon  to 
the  vessel,  or  at  least  warn  the  crew  of  the  rocks  they  were  ap- 
proaching. While  Henri  went  out  to  direct  on  what  part  of  the 
cliffs  the  lights  should  appear,  Blanche  remained  with  her  father 
at  the  window,  catching  every  now  and  then,  as  the  lightnings 
flashed,  a  glimpse  of  the  vessel :  and  she  soon  saw  with  reviving 
hope  the  torches  flaming  on  the  blackness  of  night,  and,  as  they 
waved  over  the  cliffs,  casting  a  red  gleam  on  the  gasping  billows. 
When  the  firing  of  guns  was  repeated,  the  torches  were  tossed 
high  in  the  air,  as  if  answering  the  signal,  and  the  firing  was  then 
redoubled;  but  though  the  wind  bore  the  sound  away,  she 
fancied,  as  the  lightnings  glanced,  that  the  vessel  was  much 
nearer  the  shore. 

The  count's  servants  were  now  seen  running  to  and  fro  on  the 
rocks :  some  venturing  almost  to  the  points  of  the  crags,  and 
bending  over,  held  out  their  torches  fastened  to  long  poles : 
while  others,  whose  steps  could  be  traced  only  by  the  course  of 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  605 

the  lights,  descended  the  steep  and  dangerous  path  that  wound 
to  the  margin  of  the  sea,  and  with  loud  halloos  hailed  the 
mariners ;  whose  shrill  whistle,  and  then  feeble  voices,  were 
heard  at  intervals  mingling  with  the  storm.  Sudden  shouts 
from  the  people  on  the  rocks  increased  the  anxiety  of  Blanche 
to  an  almost  intolerable  degree ;  but  her  suspense  concerning 
the  fate  of  the  mariners  was  soon  over,  when  Henri,  running 
breathless  into  the  room,  told  that  the  vessel  was  anchored 
in  the  bay  below,  but  in  so  shattered  a  condition,  that  it  was 
feared  she  would  part  before  the  crew  could  disembark.  The 
count  immediately  gave  orders  for  his  own  boats  to  assist  in 
bringing  them  to  shore,  and  that  such  of  these  unfortunate 
strangers  as  could  not  be  accommodated  in  the  adjacent  ham- 
let, should  be  entertained  at  the  chateau.  Among  the  latter 
were  Emily  St.  Aubert,  Monsieur  du  Pont,  Ludovico,  and 
Annette;  who,  having  embarked  at  Leghorn,  and  reached 
Marseilles,  were  from  thence  crossing  the  Gulf  of  Lyons  when 
this  storm  overtook  them.  They  were  received  by  the  count 
with  his  usual  benignity ;  who,  though  Emily  wished  to  have 
proceeded  immediately  to  the  monastery  of  St.  Claire,  would 
not  allow  her  to  leave  the  chateau  that  night ;  and,  indeed,  the 
terror  and  fatigue  she  had  suffered  would  scarcely  have  per- 
mitted her  to  go  farther. 

In  Monsieur  du  Pont  the  count  discovered  an  old  acquaintance, 
and  much  joy  and  congratulation  passed  between  them ;  after 
which  Emily  was  introduced  by  name  to  the  count's  family, 
whose  hospitable  benevolence  dissipated  the  Httle  embarrassment 
which  her  situation  had  occasioned  her ;  and  the  party  were 
soon  seated  at  the  supper-table.  The  unaffected  kindness 
of  Blanche,  and  the  hvely  joy  she  expressed  on  the  escape  of 
the  strangers,  for  whom  her  pity  had  been  so  much  interested, 
gradually  revived  Emily's  languid  spirits  ;  and  Du  Pont,  relieved 
from  his  terrors  for  her  and  for  himself,  felt  the  full  contrast 
between  his  late  situation  on  a  dark  and  tremendous  ocean, 
and  his  present  one  in  a  cheerful  mansion,  where  he  was  sur- 
rounded with  plenty,  elegance,  and  smiles  of  welcome. 

Annette,  meanwhile,  in  the  servants'  hall  was  telling  of  all  the 
dangers   she   had   encountered,    and   congratulating   herself   so 


6o6  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

heartily  upon  her  own  and  Ludovico's  escape,  and  on  her  present 
comforts,  that  she  often  made  all  that  part  of  the  chateau  ring 
with  merriment  and  laughter.  Ludovico's  spirits  were  as  gay 
as  her  own  ;  but  he  had  discretion  enough  to  restrain  them,  and 
tried  to  check  hers,  though  in  vain ;  till  her  laughter  at  length 
ascended  to  my  lady's  chamber ;  who  sent  to  inquire  what  oc- 
casioned so  much  uproar  in  the  chateau,  and  to  command  silence. 
Emily  withdrew  early  to  seek  the  repose  she  so  much  required  ; 
but  her  pillow  was  long  a  sleepless  one.  On  this  her  return  to 
her  native  country,  many  interesting  remembrances  were 
awakened ;  all  the  events  and  sufferings  she  had  experienced 
since  she  quitted  it,  came  in  long  succession  to  her  fancy,  and 
were  chased  only  by  the  image  of  Valancourt ;  with  whom  to 
believe  herself  once  more  in  the  same  land,  after  they  had  been  so 
long  and  so  distantly  separated,  gave  her  emotions  of  indescrib- 
able joy ;  but  which  afterwards  yielded  to  anxiety  and  apprehen- 
sion, when  she  considered  the  long  period  that  had  elapsed  since 
any  letter  had  passed  between  them,  and  how  much  might  have 
happened  in  this  interval  to  affect  her  future  peace.  But  the 
thought  that  Valancourt  might  be  now  no  more,  or,  if  living, 
might  have  forgotten  her,  was  so  very  terrible  to  her  heart, 
that  she  would  scarcely  suffer  herself  to  pause  upon  the  possibiUty. 
She  determined  to  inform  him  on  the  following  day  of  her  arrival 
in  France ;  which  it  was  scarcely  possible  he  could  know  but  by 
a  letter  from  herself :  and  after  soothing  her  spirits  with  the 
hope  of  soon  hearing  that  he  was  well  and  unchanged  in  his 
affections,  she  at  length  sunk  to  repose. 

CHAPTER  XLII 

On  the  next  night,  about  the  same  hour  as  before,  Dorothee  ^ 
came  to  Emily's  chamber  with  the  keys  of  that  suite  of  rooms 
which  had  been  particularly  appropriated  to  the  late  marchioness. 
These  extended  along  the  north  side  of  the  chateau,  forming 
part  of  the  old  building ;  and  as  Emily's  room  was  in  the  south, 
they  had  to  pass  over  a  great  extent  of  the  castle,  and  by  the 
chambers  of  several  of  the  family,  whose  observation  Dorothee 

1  An  old  servant  on  the  estate  who  has  interested  Emily  in  the  story  of  the  Villeroi  family, 
former  possessors  of  the  castle. 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  607 

was  anxious  to  avoid,  since  it  might  excite  inquiry  and  raise 
reports,  such  as  would  displease  the  count.  She  therefore  re- 
quested that  Emily  would  wait  half  an  hour  before  they  ventured 
forth,  that  they  might  be  certain  all  the  servants  were  gone  to 
bed.  It  was  nearly  one  before  the  chateau  was  perfectly  still, 
or  Dorothee  thought  it  prudent  to  leave  the  chamber.  In  this 
interval,  her  spirits  seemed  to  be  greatly  affected  by  the  re- 
membrance of  past  events,  and  by  the  prospect  of  entering  again 
upon  places  where  these  had  occurred,  and  in  which  she  had  not 
been  for  so  many  years.  Emily  too  was  affected ;  but  her 
feelings  had  more  of  solemnity,  and  less  of  fear.  From  the 
silence  into  which  reflection  and  expectation  had  thrown  them, 
they  at  length  roused  themselves,  and  left  the  chamber. 
Dorothee  at  first  carried  the  lamp,  but  her  hand  trembled  so 
much  with  infirmity  and  alarm,  that  Emily  took  it  from  her, 
and  offered  her  arm  to  support  her  feeble  steps. 

They  had  to  descend  the  great  staircase,  and,  after  passing 
over  a  wide  extent  of  the  chateau,  to  ascend  another,  which  led 
to  the  suite  of  rooms  they  were  in  quest  of.  They  stepped 
cautiously  along  the  open  corridor  that  ran  round  the  great  hall, 
and  into  which  the  chambers  of  the  count,  countess,  and  the 
Lady  Blanche,  opened ;  and  from  thence,  descending  the  chief 
staircase,  they  crossed  the  hall  itself.  Proceeding  through  the 
servants'  hall,  where  the  dying  embers  of  a  wood  fire  still  glim- 
mered on  the  hearth,  and  the  supper- table  was  surrounded  by 
chairs  that  obstructed  their  passage,  they  came  to  the  foot  of 
the  back  staircase.  Old  Dorothee  here  paused,  and  looked 
around:  'Let  us  hsten,'  said  she,  'if  anything  is  stirring; 
ma'amselle,  do  you  hear  any  voice?'  —  'None,'  said  Emily, 
'there  certainly  is  no  person  up  in  the  chateau,  besides  ourselves.' 
—  'No,  ma'amselle,'  said  Dorothee,  'but  I  have  never  been  here 
at  this  hour  before,  and,  after  what  I  know,  my  fears  are  not 
wonderful.'  —  'What  do  you  know?'  said  Emily.  —  'O  ma'am- 
selle, we  have  no  time  for  talking  now  ;  let  us  go  on.  That  door 
on  the  left  is  the  one  we  must  open.' 

They  proceeded ;  and  having  reached  the  top  of  the  staircase, 
Dorothee  appHed  the  key  to  the  lock.  'Ah,'  said  she,  as  she 
endeavoured  to  turn  it,  'so  many  years  have  passed  since  this 


6o8  MRS.   ANN    RADCLIFFE 

was  opened,  that  I  fear  it  will  not  move.'  Emily  was  more 
successful,  and  they  presently  entered  a  spacious  and  ancient 
chamber. 

'Alas!'  exclaimed  Dorothee,  as  she  entered,  'the  last  time  I 
passed  through  this  door  —  I  followed  my  poor  lady's  corpse  ! ' 

Emily,  struck  by  the  circumstance,  and  affected  by  the  dusky 
and  solemn  air  of  the  apartment,  remained  silent ;  and  they  passed 
on  through  a  long  suite  of  rooms,  till  they  came  to  one  more 
spacious  than  the  rest,  and  rich  in  the  remains  of  faded  magnifi- 
cence. 

'Let  us  rest  here  awhile, madam, 'said  Dorothee  faintly,  'we  are 
going  into  the  chamber  where  my  lady  died  !  that  door  opens  into 
it.     Ah,  ma'amselle  !  why  did  you  persuade  me  to  come  ?' 

Emily  drew  one  of  the  massy  arm-chairs  with  which  the  apart- 
ment was  furnished,  and  begged  Dorothee  would  sit  down,  and 
try  to  compose  her  spirits. 

'How  the  sight  of  this  place  brings  all  that  passed  formerly 
to  my  mind  ! '  said  Dorothee ;  '  it  seems  as  if  it  was  but  yesterday 
since  all  that  sad  affair  happened  ! ' 

'Hark  !  what  noise  is  that?'  said  Emily. 

Dorothee,  half  starting  from  her  chair,  looked  round  the 
apartment,  and  they  listened ;  but,  everything  remaining  still, 
the  old  woman  spoke  again  upon  the  subject  of  her  sorrow : 
'This  saloon,  ma'amselle,  was  in  my  lady's  time  the  finest  apart- 
ment in  the  chateau,  and  it  was  fitted  up  according  to  her  own 
taste.  All  this  grand  furniture,  —  but  you  can  now  hardly  see 
what  it  was  for  the  dust,  and  our  light  is  none  of  the  best  —  ah  ! 
how  I  have  seen  this  room  lighted  up  in  my  lady's  time  !  all 
this  grand  furniture  came  from  Paris,  and  was  made  after  the 
fashion  of  some  in  the  Louvre  there,  except  those  large  glasses, 
and  they  came  from  some  outlandish  place,  and  that  rich  tapestry. 
How  the  colours  are  faded  already  !  —  since  I  saw  it  last ! ' 

'I  understood  that  was  twenty  years  ago,'  observed  Emily. 

'Thereabout,  madam,'  said  Dorothee,  'and  well  remembered, 
but  all  the  time  between  then  and  now  seems  as  nothing.  That 
tapestry  used  to  be  greatly  admired  at :  it  tells  the  stories  out 
of  some  famous  book  or  other,  but  I  have  forgot  the  name.' 

Emily  now  rose  to  examine  the  figures  it  exhibited,  and  dis- 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  609 

covered  by  verses  in  the  Provencal  tongue,  wrought  underneath 
each  scene,  that  it  exhibited  stories  from  some  of  the  most 
celebrated  ancient  romances. 

Dorothee's  spirits  being  now  more  composed,  she  rose,  and 
unlocked  the  door  that  led  into  the  late  marchioness's  apartment, 
and  Emily  passed  into  a  lofty  chamber  hung  round  with  dark 
arras,  and  so  spacious,  that  the  lamp  she  held  up  did  not  show  its 
extent ;  while  Dorothee,  when  she  entered,  had  dropped  into  a 
chair,  where  sighing  deeply,  she  scarcely  trusted  herself  with  the 
view  of  a  scene  so  affecting  to  her.  It  was  some  time  before 
Emily  perceived  through  the  dusk  the  bed  on  which  the  marchion- 
ess was  said  to  have  died  :  when,  advancing  to  the  upper  end  of 
the  room,  she  discovered  the  high  canopied  tester  of  dark  green 
damask,  with  the  curtains  descending  to  the  floor  in  the  fashion 
of  a  tent,  half  drawn,  and  remaining  apparently  as  they  had 
been  left  twenty  years  before ;  and  over  the  whole  bedding  was 
thrown  a  counterpane,  or  pall,  of  black  velvet,  that  hung  down 
to  the  floor.  Emily  shuddered  as  she  held  the  lamp  over  it, 
and  looked  within  the  dark  curtains,  where  she  almost  expected 
to  have  seen  a  human  face ;  and,  suddenly  remembering  the 
horror  she  had  suffered  upon  discovering  the  dying  Madame 
Montoni  in  the  turret  chamber  of  Udolpho,  her  spirits  fainted ; 
and  she  was  turning  from  the  bed,  when  Dorothee,  who  had 
now  reached  it,  exclaimed,  'Holy  Virgin!  methinks  I  see  my 
lady  stretched  upon  that  pall  —  as  when  last  I  saw  her  ! ' 

Emily,  shocked  by  this  exclamation,  looked  involuntarily 
again  within  the  curtains,  but  the  blackness  of  the  pall  only 
appeared ;  while  Dorothee  was  compelled  to  support  herself 
upon  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  presently  tears  brought  her  some 
relief. 

'Ah  !'  said  she,  after  she  had  wept  awhile,  'it  was  here  I  sat 
on  that  terrible  night,  and  held  my  lady's  hand,  and  heard  her 
last  words,  and  saw  all  her  sufferings  —  here  she  died  in  my 
arms  ! ' 

'Do  not  indulge  these  painful  recollections,'  said  Emily; 
'let  us  go.  Show  me  the  picture  you  mentioned,  if  it  will  not 
too  much  affect  you.' 

'It  hangs  in  the  oriel,'  rising  and  going  towards  a  small  door 


6io  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

near  the  bed's  head,  which  she  opened  ;  and  Emily  followed  with 
the  light  into  the  closet  of  the  late  marchioness. 

'Alas!  there  she  is,  ma'amselle,'  said  Dorothee,  pointing  to 
the  portrait  of  a  lady  ;  '  there  is  her  very  self !  just  as  she  looked 
when  she  came  first  to  the  chateau.  You  see,  madam,  she  was 
all-blooming  like  you,  then  —  and  so  soon  to  be  cut  off  ! ' 

While  Dorothee  spoke,  Emily  was  attentively  examining 
the  picture,  which  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  miniature, 
though  the  expression  of  the  countenance  in  each  was  somewhat 
different ;  but  still  she  thought  she  perceived  something  of  that 
pensive  melancholy  in  the  portrait,  which  so  strongly  character- 
ised the  miniature. 

'Pray,  ma'amselle,  stand  beside  the  picture,  that  I  may  look  at 
you  together,'  said  Dorothee;  who,  when  the  request  was  com- 
phed  with,  exclaimed  again  at  the  resemblance.  Emily  also, 
as  she  gazed  upon  it,  thought  that  she  had  somewhere  seen  a 
person  very  like  it,  though  she  could  not  now  recollect  who  this 
was. 

In  this  closet  were  many  memorials  of  the  departed  mar- 
chioness ;  a  robe  and  several  articles  of  her  dress  were  scattered 
upon  the  chairs,  as  if  they  had  just  been  thrown  off.  On  the 
floor  were  a  pair  of  black  satin  sHppers  ;  and  on  the  dressing-table 
a  pair  of  gloves,  and  a  long  black  veil,  which,  as  Emily  took  it  up 
to  examine,  she  perceived  was  dropping  to  pieces  with  age. 

'Ah!'  said  Dorothee,  observing  the  veil,  'my  lady's  hand 
laid  it  there  ;  it  has  never  been  moved  since  ! ' 

Emily,  shuddering,  immediately  laid  it  down  again.  'I  well 
remember  seeing  her  take  it  off,'  continued  Dorothee  ;  '  it  was  on 
the  night  before  her  death,  when  she  had  returned  from  a  Httle 
walk  I  had  persuaded  her  to  take  in  the  gardens,  and  she  seemed 
refreshed  by  it.  I  told  her  how  much  better  she  looked,  and  I 
remember  what  a  languid  smile  she  gave  me  ;  but,  alas  !  she  httle 
thought,  or  I  either,  that  she  was  to  die  that  night.' 

Dorothee  wept  again,  and  then,  taking  up  the  veil,  threw  it 
suddenly  over  Emily,  who  shuddered  to  find  it  wrapped  round 
her,  descending  even  to  her  feet;  and  as  she  endeavoured  to 
throw  it  off,  Dorothee  entreated  that  she  would  keep  it  on  for  one 
moment.     'I  thought,'  added  she,  'how  like  you  would  look  to 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  6ii 

my  dear  mistress,  in  that  veil ;  —  may  your  life,  ma'amselle, 
be  a  happier  one  than  hers  ! ' 

Emily,  having  disengaged  herself  from  the  veil,  laid  it  again 
on  the  dressing-table,  and  surveyed  the  closet,  where  every 
object  on  which  her  eye  fixed  seemed  to  speak  of  the  marchioness. 
In  a  large  oriel  window  of  painted  glass  stood  a  table  with  a  silver 
crucifix,  and  a  prayer-book  open ;  and  Emily  remembered  with 
emotion  what  Dorothee  had  mentioned  concerning  her  custom  of 
playing  on  her  lute  in  this  window,  before  she  observed  the  lute 
itself  lying  on  a  corner  of  the  table,  as  if  it  had  been  carelessly 
placed  there  by  the  hand  that  had  so  often  awakened  it. 

'This  is  a  sad,  forlorn  place  !'  said  Dorothee;  'for  when  my 
dear  lady  died,  I  had  no  heart  to  put  it  to  rights,  or  the  chamber 
either ;  and  my  lord  never  came  into  the  rooms  after ;  so  they 
remain  just  as  they  did  when  my  lady  was  removed  for  inter- 
ment.' 

While  Dorothee  spoke,  Emily  was  still  looking  on  the  lute, 
which  was  a  Spanish  one,  and  remarkably  large ;  and  then,  with 
a  hesitating  hand,  she  took  it  up  and  passed  her  fingers  over  the 
chords.  They  were  out  of  tune,  but  uttered  a  deep  and  full 
sound.  Dorothee  started  at  their  well-known  tones,  and  seeing 
the  lute  in  Emily's  hand,  said,  'This  is  the  lute  my  lady  marchion- 
ess loved  so  !  I  remember  when  last  she  played  upon  it  —  it  was 
on  the  night  that  she  died.  I  came  as  usual  to  undress  her; 
and,  as  I  entered  the  bed-chamber,  I  heard  the  sound  of  music 
from  the  oriel,  and  perceiving  it  was  my  lady's,  who  was  sitting 
there,  I  stepped  softly  to  the  door,  which  stood  a  little  open, 
to  listen ;  for  the  music  —  though  it  was  mournful  —  was  so 
sweet  !  There  I  saw  her,  with  the  lute  in  her  hand,  looking 
upwards ;  and  the  tears  fell  upon  her  cheeks,  while  she  sung  a 
vesper  hymn,  so  soft,  and  so  solemn  !  and  her  voice  trembled, 
as  it  were  :  and  then  she  would  stop  for  a  moment,  and  wipe  away 
her  tears,  and  go  on  again,  lower  than  before.  O  !  I  had  often 
hstened  to  my  lady,  but  never  heard  any  thing  so  sweet  as  this ; 
it  made  me  cry  almost  to  hear  it.  She  had  been  at  prayers,  I 
fancy,  for  there  was  the  book  open  on  the  table  beside  her  —  aye, 
and  there  it  lies  open  still !  Pray  let  us  leave  the  oriel,  ma'am- 
selle,' added  Dorothee,  'this  is  a  heart-breaking  place.' 


6i2  MRS.  ANN  RADCLIFFE 

Having  returned  into  the  chamber,  she  desired  to  look  once 
more  upon  the  bed ;  when,  as  they  came  opposite  to  the  open 
door  leading  to  the  saloon,  Emily,  in  the  partial  gleam  which  the 
lamp  threw  into  it,  thought  she  saw  something  ghde  along  into 
the  obscurer  part  of  the  room.  Her  spirits  had  been  much 
affected  by  the  surrounding  scene,  or  it  is  probable  this  circum- 
stance, whether  real  or  imaginary,  would  not  have  affected  her 
in  the  degree  it  did  ;  but  she  endeavoured  to  conceal  her  emotion 
from  Dorothee,  who,  however,  observing  her  countenance 
changed,  inquired  if  she  was  ill. 

'Let  us  go,'  said  Emily  faintly;  'the  air  of  these  rooms  is 
unwholesome:'  but  when  she  attempted  to  do  so,  considering 
that  she  must  pass  through  the  apartment  where  the  phantom 
of  her  terror  had  appeared,  this  terror  increased ;  and,  too  faint 
to  support  herself,  she  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

Dorothee,  believing  that  she  was  only  affected  by  a  considera- 
tion of  the  melancholy  catastrophe  which  had  happened  on  this 
spot,  endeavoured  to  cheer  her ;  and  then,  as  they  sat  together  on 
the  bed,  she  began  to  relate  other  particulars  concerning  it,  and 
this  without  reflecting  that  it  might  increase  Emily's  emotion, 
but  because  they  were  particularly  interesting  to  herself.  'A 
little  before  my  lady's  death,'  said  she,  'when  the  pains  were  gone 
off,  she  called  me  to  her ;  and  stretching  out  her  hand  to  me,  I 
sat  down  just  there  —  where  the  curtain  falls  upon  the  bed. 
How  well  I  remember  her  look  at  the  time  —  death  was  in  it !  —  I 
can  almost  fancy  I  see  her  now.  There  she  lay,  ma'amselle  — 
her  face  was  upon  the  pillow  there  !  This  black  counterpane  was 
not  upon  the  bed  then ;  it  was  laid  on  after  her  death,  and 
she  was  laid  out  upon  it.' 

Emily  turned  to  look  within  the  dusky  curtains,  as  if  she  could 
have  seen  the  countenance  of  which  Dorothee  spoke.  The 
edge  of  the  white  pillow  only  appeared  above  the  blackness  of 
the  pall ;  but,  as  her  eyes  wandered  over  the  pall  itself,  she  fancied 
she  saw  it  move.  Without  speaking,  she  caught  Dorothee's 
arm,  who,  surprised  by  the  action,  and  by  the  look  of  terror  which 
accompanied  it,  turned  her  eyes  from  Emily  to  the  bed,  where, 
in  the  next  moment,  she  too  saw  the  pall  slowly  lifted  and  fall 
again. 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  613 

Emily  attempted  to  go,  but  Dorothee  stood  fixed,  and  gazed 
upon  the  bed ;  and  at  length  said  —  'It  is  only  the  wind  that 
waves  it,  ma'amselle  !  we  have  left  all  the  doors  open ;  see  how 
the  air  waves  the  lamp  too  —  it  is  only  the  wind.' 

She  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words,  when  the  pall  was  more 
violently  agitated  than  before ;  but  Emily,  somewhat  ashamed 
of  her  terrors,  stepped  back  to  the  bed,  willing  to  be  convinced 
that  the  wind  only  had  occasioned  her  alarm ;  when,  as  she 
gazed  within  the  curtains,  the  pall  moved  again,  and  in  the  next 
moment  the  apparition  of  a  human  countenance  rose  above  it. 

Screaming  with  terror,  they  both  fled,  and  got  out  of  the 
chamber  as  fast  as  their  trembling  limbs  would  bear  them,  leaving 
open  the  doors  of  all  the  rooms  through  which  they  passed. 
When  they  reached  the  staircase,  Dorothee  threw  open  a  cham- 
ber-door, where  some  of  the  female  servants  slept,  and  sunk 
breathless  on  the  bed ;  while  Emily,  deprived  of  all  presence  of 
mind,  made  only  a  feeble  attempt  to  conceal  the  occasion  of  her 
terror  from  the  astonished  servants :  and  though  Dorothee, 
when  she  could  speak,  endeavoured  to  laugh  at  her  own  fright, 
and  was  joined  by  Emily,  no  remonstrances  could  prevail  with 
the  servants,  who  had  quickly  taken  the  alarm,  to  pass  even  the 
remainder  of  the  night  in  a  room  near  to  these  terrific  chambers. 

From  this  night  the  terror  of  the  servants  increased  to  such 
an  excess,  that  several  of  them  determined  to  leave  the  chateau, 
and  requested  their  discharge  of  the  count,  who,  if  he  had  any 
faith  in  the  subjects  of  their  alarm,  thought  proper  to  dissemble 
it,  and,  anxious  to  avoid  the  inconvenience  that  threatened  him, 
employed  ridicule,  and  then  argument,  to  convince  them  they 
had  nothing  to  apprehend  from  supernatural  agency.  But  fear 
had  rendered  their  minds  inaccessible  to  reason ;  and  it  was  now 
that  Ludovico  proved  at  once  his  courage  and  his  gratitude  for 
the  kindness  he  had  received  from  the  count,  by  offering  to  watch, 
during  a  night,  in  the  suite  of  rooms  reputed  to  be  haunted. 
'He  feared,'  he  said,  'no  spirits ;  and  if  anything  of  human  form 
appeared  —  he  would  prove  that  he  dreaded  that  as  little.' 

The  count  paused  upon  the  offer;  while  the  servants,  who 
heard  it,  looked  upon  one  another  in  doubt  and  amazement :  and 


6i4  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

Annette,  terrified  for  the  safety  of  Ludovico,  employed  tears 
and  entreaties  to  dissuade  him  from  his  purpose. 

'You  are  a  bold  fellow,'  said  the  count,  smiling ;  '  think  well  of 
what  you  are  going  to  encounter  before  you  finally  determine 
upon  it.  However,  if  you  persevere  in  your  resolution,  I  will 
accept  your  offer,  and  your  intrepidity  shall  not  go  unrewarded.' 

'I  desire  no  reward,  your  Excellenza,'  rephed  Ludovico,  'but 
your  approbation.  Your  Excellenza  has  been  sufficiently  good  to 
me  already ;  but  I  wish  to  have  arms,  that  I  may  be  equal  to 
my  enemy,  if  he  should  appear.' 

'Your  sword  cannot  defend  you  against  a  ghost,'  replied  the 
count,  throwing  a  glance  of  irony  upon  the  other  servants : 
'neither  can  bars  nor  bolts;  for  a  spirit,  you  know,  can  glide 
through  a  key-hole  as  easily  as  through  a  door. ' 

'Give  me  a  sword,  my  lord  count,'  said  Ludovico,  'and  I  will 
lay  all  the  spirits  that  shall  attack  me  in  the  Red  Sea. ' 

'Well,'  said  the  count,  'you  shall  have  a  sword,  and  good  cheer 
too ;  and  your  brave  comrades  here  will,  perhaps,  have  courage 
enough  to  remain  another  night  in  the  chateau,  since  your  bold- 
ness will  certainly,  for  this  night  at  least,  confine  all  the  malice 
of  the  spectre  to  yourself.' 

Curiosity  now  struggled  with  fear  in  the  minds  of  several  of 
his  fellow-servants,  and  at  length  they  resolved  to  await  the 
event  of  Ludovico's  rashness. 

Emily  was  surprised  and  concerned  when  she  heard  of  his 
intention,  and  was  frequently  inclined  to  mention  what  she  had 
witnessed  in  the  north  apartments  to  the  count ;  for  she  could 
not  entirely  divest  herself  of  fears  for  Ludovico's  safety,  though 
her  reason  represented  these  to  be  absurd.  The  necessity, 
however,  of  concealing  the  secret  with  which  Dorothee  had  in- 
trusted her,  and  which  must  have  been  mentioned  with  the  late 
occurrence,  in  excuse  for  her  having  so  privately  visited  the 
north  apartments,  kept  her  entirely  silent  on  the  subject  of  her 
apprehension ;  and  she  tried  only  to  soothe  Annette,  who  held 
that  Ludovico  was  certainly  to  be  destroyed  ;  and  who  was  much 
less  affected  by  Emily's  consoling  efforts  than  by  the  manner  of 
old  Dorothee,  who  often,  as  she  exclaimed  'Ludovico,'  sighed, 
and  threw  up  her  eyes  to  Heaven. 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  615 

CHAPTER   XLIV 

The  count  gave  orders  for  the  north  apartments  to  be  opened 
and  prepared  for  the  reception  of  Ludovico ;  but  Dorothee, 
remembering  what  she  had  lately  witnessed  there,  feared  to 
obey;  and  not  one  of  the  other  servants  daring  to  venture 
thither  the  rooms  remained  shut  up  till  the  time  when  Ludovico 
was  to  retire  thither  for  the  night,  an  hour  for  which  the  whole 
household  waited  with  impatience. 

After  supper,  Ludovico,  by  the  order  of  the  count,  attended 
him  in  his  closet,  where  they  remained  for  near  half  an  hour ; 
and  on  leaving  which,  his  lord  delivered  to  him  a  sword. 

'It  has  seen  service  in  mortal  quarrels,'  said  the  count  jocosely ; 
'you  will  use  it  honourably,  no  doubt,  in  a  spiritual  one.  To- 
morrow let  me  hear  that  there  is  not  one  ghost  remaining  in  the 
chateau.' 

Ludovico  received  it  with  a  respectful  bow.  'You  shall  be 
obeyed,  my  lord,'  said  he;  'I  will  engage  that  no  spectre  shall 
disturb  the  peace  of  the  chateau  after  this  night.' 

They  now  returned  to  the  supper- room,  where  the  count's 
guests  awaited  to  accompany  him  and  Ludovico  to  the  door  of 
the  north  apartments ;  and  Dorothee,  being  summoned  for  the 
keys,  delivered  them  to  Ludovico,  who  then  led  the  way,  followed 
by  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  chateau.  Having  reached  the 
back  staircase,  several  of  the  servants  shrunk  back,  and  refused 
to  go  further ;  but  the  rest  followed  him  to  the  top  of  the  stair- 
case, where  a  broad  landing-place  allowed  them  to  flock  round 
him,  while  he  applied  the  key  to  the  door,  during  which  they 
watched  him  with  as  much  eager  curiosity  as  if  he  had  been 
performing  some  magical  rite. 

Ludovico,  unaccustomed  to  the  lock,  could  not  turn  it ;  and 
Dorothee,  who  had  lingered  far  behind,  was  called  forward, 
under  whose  hand  the  door  opened  slowly  ;  and,  her  eye  glancing 
within  the  dusky  chamber,  she  uttered  a  sudden  shriek,  and  re- 
treated. At  this  signal  of  alarm  the  greater  part  of  the  crowd 
hurried  down  the  stairs ;  and  the  count,  Henri,  and  Ludovico 
were  left  alone  to  pursue  the  inquiry,  who  instantly  rushed  into 
the  apartment  —  Ludovico  with  a  drawn  sword,  which  he  had 


6i6  MRS.  ANN   RADCLIFFE 

just  time  to  draw  from  the  scabbard ;  the  count  with  the  lamp 
in  his  hand ;  and  Henri  carrying  a  basket  containing  provision 
for  the  courageous  adventurer. 

Having  looked  hastily  round  the  first  room,  where  nothing 
appeared  to  justify  alarm,  they  passed  on  to  the  second;  and 
here  too  all  being  quiet,  they  proceeded  to  a  third  with  a  more 
tempered  step.  The  count  had  now  leisure  to  smile  at  the  dis- 
composure into  which  he  had  been  surprised,  and  to  ask  Ludovico 
in  which  room  he  designed  to  pass  the  night. 

'There  are  several  chambers  beyond  these,  your  Excellenza,' 
said  Ludovico,  pointing  to  a  door,  '  and  in  one  of  them  is  a  bed, 
they  say.  I  will  pass  the  night  there ;  and  when  I  am  weary  of 
watching,  I  can  lie  down.' 

'Good,'  said  the  count;  'let  us  go  on.  You  see  these  rooms 
show  nothing  but  damp  walls  and  decaying  furniture.  I  have 
been  so  much  engaged  since  I  came  to  the  chateau,  that  I  have 
not  looked  into  them  till  now.  Remember,  Ludovico,  to  tell 
the  housekeeper  to-morrow,  to  throw  open  these  windows. 
The  damask  hangings  are  dropping  to  pieces :  I  will  have  them 
taken  down,  and  this  antique  furniture  removed.' 

'Dear  sir!'  said  Henri,  'here  is  an  arm-chair  so  massy  with 
gilding,  that  it  resembles  one  of  the  state  chairs  at  the  Louvre, 
more  than  anything  else.' 

'Yes,'  said  the  count,  stopping  a  moment  to  survey  it,  'there 
is  a  history  belonging  to  that  chair,  but  I  have  not  time  to  tell  it 
—  let  us  pass  on.  This  suite  runs  to  a  greater  extent  than  I  had 
imagined  :  it  is  many  years  since  I  was  in  them.  But  where 
is  the  bed-room  you  speak  of,  Ludovico  ?  —  these  are  only  ante- 
chambers to  the  great  drawing-room.  I  remember  them  in  their 
splendour.' 

'The  bed,  my  lord,'  replied  Ludovico,  'they  told  me  was  in  a 
room  that  opens  beyond  the  saloon,  and  terminates  the  suite.' 

'O,  here  is  the  saloon,'  said  the  count,  as  they  entered  the 
spacious  apartment  in  which  Emily  and  Dorothee  had  rested. 
He  here  stood  for  a  moment,  surveying  the  relics  of  faded 
grandeur  which  it  exhibited  —  the  sumptuous  tapestry  —  the 
long  and  low  sofas  of  velvet,  with  frames  heavily  carved  and 
gilded  — ■  the  floor  inlaid  with  small  squares  of  fine  marble,  and 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  617 

covered  in  the  centre  with  a  piece  of  very  rich  tapestry  work  — 
the  casements  of  painted  glass  —  and  the  large  Venetian  mirrors, 
of  a  size  and  quality  such  as  at  that  period  France  could  not  make, 
which  reflected  on  every  side  the  spacious  apartment.  These 
had  formerly  also  reflected  a  gay  and  brilliant  scene,  for  this  had 
been  the  state-room  of  the  chateau,  and  here  the  marchioness 
had  held  the  assembhes  that  made  part  of  the  festivities  of  her 
nuptials.  If  the  wand  of  a  magician  could  have  recalled  the 
vanished  groups  —  many  of  them  vanished  even  from  the  earth 
—  that  once  had  passed  over  these  polished  mirrors,  what  a 
varied  and  contrasted  picture  would  they  have  exhibited  with 
the  present !  Now,  instead  of  a  blaze  of  lights,  and  a  splendid 
and  busy  crowd,  they  reflected  only  the  rays  of  the  one  glimmer- 
ing lamp,  which  the  count  held  up,  and  which  scarcely  served 
to  show  the  three  forlorn  figures  that  stood  surveying  the  room, 
and  the  spacious  and  dusky  walls  around  them. 

'Ah  ! '  said  the  count  to  Henri,  awaking  from  his  deep  reverie, 
*  how  the  scene  is  changed  since  last  I  saw  it !  I  was  a  young 
man  then ;  and  the  marchioness  was  alive  and  in  her  bloom ; 
many  other  persons  were  here,  too,  who  are  now  no  more  ! 
There  stood  the  orchestra ;  here  we  tripped  in  many  a  sprightly 
maze  —  the  walls  echoing  to  the  dance  !  Now,  they  resound 
only  one  feeble  voice  —  and  even  that  will,  ere  long,  be  heard 
no  more  !  My  son,  remember  that  I  was  once  as  young  as  your- 
self, and  that  you  must  pass  away  like  those  who  have  preceded 
you  —  like  those  who,  as  they  sung  and  danced  in  this  once  gay 
apartment,  forgot  that  years  are  made  up  of  moments,  and  that 
every  step  they  took  carried  them  nearer  to  their  graves.  But 
such  reflections  are  useless,  I  had  almost  said  criminal,  unless 
they  teach  us  to  prepare  for  eternity ;  since  otherwise  they  cloud 
our  present  happiness,  without  guiding  us  to  a  future  one.  But 
enough  of  this  — •  let  us  go  on.' 

Ludovico  now  opened  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  and  the 
count,  as  he  entered,  was  struck  with  the  funereal  appearance 
which  the  dark  arras  gave  to  it.  He  approached  the  bed  with 
an  emotion  of  solemnity,  and,  perceiving  it  to  be  covered  with 
the  pall  of  black  velvet,  paused  :  '  What  can  this  mean  ? '  said  he, 
as  he  gazed  upon  it. 


6i8  MRS.   ANN  RADCLIFFE 

'I  have  heard,  my  lord,'  said  Ludovico,  as  he  stood  at  the  feet 
looking  within  the  canopied  curtains,  '  that  the  Lady  Marchioness 
de  Villeroi  died  in  this  chamber,  and  remained  here  till  she  was 
removed  to  be  buried ;  and  this  perhaps,  signor,  may  account 
for  the  pall.' 

The  count  made  no  reply,  but  stood  for  a  few  moments  engaged 
in  thought,  and  evidently  much  affected.  Then,  turning  to 
Ludovico,  he  asked  him  with  a  serious  air  whether  he  thought 
his  courage  would  support  him  through  the  night?  'If  you 
doubt  this,'  added  the  count,  'do  not  be  ashamed  to  own  it; 
I. will  release  you  from  your  engagement,  without  exposing  you 
to  the  triumphs  of  your  fellow-servants.' 

Ludovico  paused ;  pride,  and  something  very  like  fear,  seemed 
struggling  in  his  breast :  pride,  however,  was  victorious  ;  —  he 
blushed,  and  his  hesitation  ceased. 

'No,  my  lord,'  said  he,  'I  will  go  through  with  what  I  have 
begun ;  and  I  am  grateful  for  your  consideration.  On  that 
hearth  I  will  make  a  fire,  and,  with  the  good  cheer  in  this  basket, 
I  doubt  not  I  shall  do  well.' 

'Be  it  so,'  said  the  count;  'but  how  will  you  beguile  the  te- 
diousness  of  the  night,  if  you  do  not  sleep  ?' 

'When  I  am  weary,  my  lord,'  replied  Ludovico,  'I  shall  not 
fear  to  sleep  ;  in  the  meanwhile  I  have  a  book  that  will  entertain 
me.' 

'Well,'  said  the  count,  'I  hope  nothing  will  disturb  you  ;  but 
if  you  should  be  seriously  alarmed  in  the  night,  come  to  my 
apartment.  I  have  too  much  confidence  in  your  good  sense  and 
courage  to  believe  you  will  be  alarmed  on  slight  grounds,  or  suffer 
the  gloom  of  this  chamber,  or  its  remote  situation,  to  overcome 
you  with  ideal  terrors.  To-morrow  I  shall  have  to  thank  you 
for  an  important  service  ;  these  rooms  shall  then  be  thrown  open, 
and  my  people  will  be  convinced  of  their  error.  Good  night, 
Ludovico ;  let  me  see  you  early  in  the  morning,  and  remember 
what  I  lately  said  to  you.' 

'  I  will,  my  lord ;  good  night  to  your  Excellenza,  —  let  me  at- 
tend you  with  the  light.' 

He  Hghted  the  count  and  Henri  through  the  chambers  to  the 
outer  door.     On  the  landing-place  stood  a  lamp,  which  one  of 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  619 

the  affrighted  servants  had  left ;  and  Henri,  as  he  took  it  up, 
again  bade  Ludovico  good  night,  who  having  respectfully  returned 
the  wish,  closed  the  door  upon  them,  and  fastened  it.  Then,  as 
he  retired  to  the  bed-chamber,  he  examined  the  rooms  through 
which  he  passed,  with  more  minuteness  than  he  had  done  before, 
for  he  apprehended  that  some  person  might  have  concealed  him- 
self in  them,  for  the  purpose  of  frightening  him.  No  one, 
however,  but  himself  was  in  these  chambers ;  and  leaving  open 
the  doors  through  which  he  passed,  he  came  again  to  the  great 
drawing-room,  whose  spaciousness  and  silent  gloom  somewhat 
awed  him.  For  a  moment  he  stood,  looking  back  through  the 
long  suite  of  rooms  he  had  quitted  ;  and  as  he  turned,  perceiving 
a  light  and  his  own  figure  reflected  in  one  of  the  large  mirrors,  he 
started.  Other  objects  too  were  seen  obscurely  on  its  dark 
surface ;  but  he  paused  not  to  examine  them,  and  returned 
hastily  into  the  bed-room,  as  he  surveyed  which,  he  observed 
the  door  of  the  oriel,  and  opened  it.  All  within  was  still.  On 
looking  round,  his  eye  was  arrested  by  the  portrait  of  the  deceased 
marchioness,  upon  which  he  gazed  for  a  considerable  time  with 
great  attention  and  some  surprise ;  and  then,  having  examined 
the  closet,  he  returned  into  the  bed-room,  where  he  kindled  a 
wood  fire,  the  bright  blaze  of  which  revived  his  spirits,  which 
had  begun  to  yield  to  the  gloom  and  silence  of  the  place,  for  gusts 
of  wind  alone  broke  at  intervals  this  silence.  He  now  drew  a 
small  table  and  a  chair  near  the  fire,  took  a  bottle  of  wine  and 
some  cold  provision  out  of  his  basket,  and  regaled  himself.  When 
he  had  finished  his  repast,  he  laid  his  sword  upon  the  table,  and, 
not  feeling  disposed  to  sleep,  drew  from  his  pocket  the  book  he 
had  spoken  of.  —  It  was  a  volume  of  old  Provencal  tales.  — 
Having  stirred  the  fire  into  a  brighter  blaze,  trimmed  his  lamp, 
and  drawn  his  chair  upon  the  hearth,  he  began  to  read,  and 
his  attention  was  soon  wholly  occupied  by  the  scenes  which  the 
page  disclosed. 

The  count,  meanwhile,  had  returned  to  the  supper-room, 
whither  those  of  the  party  who  had  attended  him  to  the  north 
apartment  had  retreated,  upon  hearing  Dorothee's  scream, 
and  who  were  now  earnest  in  their  inquiries  concerning  those 
chambers.     The  count  rallied  his  guests  on  their  precipitate 


620  MRS.  ANN   RADCLIFFE 

retreat,  and  on  the  superstitious  inclination  which  had  occasioned 
it ;  and  this  led  to  the  question,  Whether  the  spirit,  after  it  has 
quitted  the  body,  is  ever  permitted  to  revisit  the  earth ;  and  if  it 
is,  whether  it  was  possible  for  spirits  to  become  visible  to  the 
sense  ?  The  baron  was  of  opinion  that  the  first  was  probable, 
and  the  last  was  possible ;  and  he  endeavoured  to  justify  this 
opinion  by  respectable  authorities,  both  ancient  and  modern, 
which  he  quoted.  The  count,  however,  was  decidedly  against 
him ;  and  a  long  conversation  ensued,  in  which  the  usual  argu- 
ments on  these  subjects  were  on  both  sides  brought  forward 
with  skill,  and  discussed  with  candour,  but  without  converting 
either  party  to  the  opinion  of  his  opponent.  The  efifect  of  their 
conversation  on  their  auditors  was  various.  Though  the  count 
had  much  the  superiority  of  the  baron  in  point  of  argument,  he 
had  considerably  fewer  adherents ;  for  that  love,  so  natural  to 
the  human  mind,  of  whatever  is  able  to  distend  its  faculties  with 
wonder  and  astonishment,  attached  the  majority  of  the  company 
to  the  side  of  the  baron  ;  and  though  many  of  the  count's  prop- 
ositions were  unanswerable,  his  opponents  were  inclined  to 
believe  this  the  consequence  of  their  own  want  of  knowledge  on 
so  abstracted  a  subject,  rather  than  that  arguments  did  not 
exist  which  were  forcible  enough  to  conquer  his. 

Blanche  was  pale  with  attention,  till  the  ridicule  in  her  father's 
glance  called  a  blush  upon  her  countenance,  and  she  then  en- 
deavoured to  forget  the  superstitious  tales  she  had  been  told  in 
her  convent.  Meanwhile,  Emily  had  been  Hstening  with  deep 
attention  to  the  discussion  of  what  was  to  her  a  very  interesting 
question ;  and  remembering  the  appearance  she  had  witnessed 
in  the  apartment  of  the  late  marchioness,  she  was  frequently 
chilled  with  awe.  Several  times  she  was  on  the  point  of  mention- 
ing what  she  had  seen ;  but  the  fear  of  giving  pain  to  the  count, 
and  the  dread  of  his  ridicule,  restrained  her ;  and  awaiting 
in  anxious  expectation  the  event  of  Ludovico's  intrepidity,  she 
determined  that  her  future  silence  should  depend  upon  it. 

When  the  party  had  separated  for  the  night,  and  the  count 
retired  to  his  dressing-room,  the  remembrance  of  the  desolate 
scenes  he  had  lately  witnessed  in  his  own  mansion  deeply 
affected  him,  but  at  length  he  was  aroused  from  his  reverie  and 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  621 

his  silence.  'What  music  is  that  I  hear?'  said  he  suddenly 
to  his  valet ;   '  Who  plays  at  this  late  hour  ! ' 

The  man  made  no  reply ;  and  the  count  continued  to  listen, 
and  then  added,  'That  is  no  common  musician;  he  touches  the 
instrument  with  a  delicate  hand  —  who  is  it,  Pierre  ? ' 

'My  lord  !'  said  the  man  hesitatingly. 

'Who  plays  that  instrument?'  repeated  the  count. 

'  Does  not  your  lordship  know,  then  ? '  said  the  valet. 

'What  mean  you  ?'  said  the  count,  somewhat  sternly. 

'Nothing,  my  lord,  I  meant  nothing,'  rejoined  the  man  sub- 
missively—  'only  —  that  music  —  goes  about  the  house  at 
midnight  often,  and  I  thought  your  lordship  might  have  heard 
it  before.' 

'  Music  goes  about  the  house  at  midnight !  Poor  fellow  !  — • 
does  nobody  dance  to  the  music,  too  ? ' 

'It  is  not  in  the  chateau,  I  believe,  my  lord  ;  the  sounds  come 
from  the  woods,  they  say,  though  they  seem  so  near ;  —  but  then 
a  spirit  can  do  anything. ' 

'Ah,  poor  fellow  !'  said  the  count,  'I  perceive  you  are  as  silly 
as  the  rest  of  them ;  to-morrow  you  will  be  convinced  of  your 
ridiculous  error.     But  hark  !  —  what  voice  is  that  ? ' 

'Oh,  my  lord  !  that  is  the  voice  we  often  hear  with  the  music' 

'Often  !'  said  the  count :  'How  often,  pray  ?  It  is  a  very  fine 
one.' 

'Why,  my  lord,  I  myself  have  not  heard  it  more  than  two  or 
three  times ;  but  there  are  those  who  have  lived  here  longer, 
that  have  heard  it  often  enough.' 

'What  a  swell  was  that!'  exclaimed  the  count,  as  he  still  lis- 
tened — '  and  now  what  a  dying  cadence  !  This  is  surely  some- 
thing more  than  mortal ! ' 

'That  is  what  they  say,  my  lord,'  said  the  valet ;  'they  say  it 
is  nothing  mortal  that  utters  it;  and  if  I  might  say  my 
thoughts ' 

'  Peace  ! '  said  the  count,  and  he  listened  till  the  strain  died 
away. 

'  This  is  strange  ! '  said  he,  as  he  turned  from  the  window  — 
''Close  the  casements,  Pierre.' 

Pierre  obeyed,  and  the  count  soon  after  dismissed  him ;    but 


62  2  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

did  not  so  soon  lose  the  remembrance  of  the  music,  which  long 
vibrated  in  his  fancy  in  tones  of  melting  sweetness,  while  surprise 
and  perplexity  engaged  his  thoughts. 

Ludovico,  meanwhile,  in  his  remote  chamber,  heard  now  and 
then  the  faint  echo  of  a  closing  door  as  the  family  retired  to 
rest,  and  then  the  hall  clock  at  a  great  distance  strike  twelve. 
'It  is  midnight,'  said  he,  —  and  he  looked  suspiciously  round 
the  spacious  chamber.  The  fire  on  the  hearth  was  now  nearly 
expiring ;  for,  his  attention  having  been  engaged  by  the  book 
before  him,  he  had  forgotten  everything  besides ;  but  he  soon 
added  fresh  wood,  not  because  he  was  cold,  though  the  night 
was  stormy,  but  because  he  was  cheerless ;  and  having  again 
trimmed  his  lamp,  he  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine,  drew  his  chair 
nearer  to  the  crackhng  blaze,  tried  to  be  deaf  to  the  wind  that 
howled  mournfully  at  the  casements,  endeavoured  to  abstract 
his  mind  from  the  melancholy  that  was  stealing  upon  him, 
and  again  took  up  his  book.  It  had  been  lent  to  him  by  Dorothee, 
who  had  formerly  picked  it  up  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  mar- 
quis's library,  and  who,  having  opened  it  and  perceived  some  of 
the  marvels  it  related,  had  carefully  preserved  it  for  her  own 
entertainment,  its  condition  giving  her  some  excuse  for  detaining 
it  from  its  proper  station.  The  damp  corner  into  which  it  had 
fallen  had  caused  the  cover  to  be  disfigured  and  mouldy,  and  the 
leaves  to  be  so  discoloured  with  spots,  that  it  was  not  without 
difficulty  the  letters  could  be  traced.  Some  of  the  tales  in  the 
book  now  before  Ludovico  were  of  simple  structure,  and  exhibited 
nothing  of  the  magnificent  machinery  and  heroic  manners  which 
usually  characterised  the  fables  of  the  twelfth  century,  and  of  this 
description  was  the  one  he  now  happened  to  open. 


Ludovico,  having  finished  this  story,  laid  aside  the  book, 
for  he  felt  drowsy ;  and  after  putting  more  wood  on  the  fire,  and 
taking  another  glass  of  wine,  he  reposed  himself  in  the  arm-chair 
on  the  hearth.  In  his  dream  he  still  beheld  the  chamber  where 
he  really  was,  and  once  or  twice  started  from  imperfect  slumbers, 
imagining  he  saw  a  man's  face  looking  over  the  high  back  of  his 
arm-chair.     This  idea  had  so  strongly  impressed  him,  that  when 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  623 

he  raised  his  eyes  he  almost  expected  to  meet  other  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  own ;  and  he  quitted  his  seat,  and  looked  behind  the 
chair,  before  he  felt  perfectly  convinced  that  no  person  was 
there. 

Thus  closed  the  hour. 

CHAPTER  XLV 

The  count,  who  had  slept  little  during  the  night,  rose  early, 
and  anxious  to  speak  with  Ludovico,  went  to  the  north  apart- 
ment ;  but  the  outer  door  having  been  fastened  on  the  preceding 
night,  he  was  obliged  to  knock  loudly  for  admittance.  Neither 
the  knocking  nor  his  voice  was  heard ;  but  considering  the  dis- 
tance of  this  door  from  the  bedroom,  and  that  Ludovico,  wearied 
with  watching,  had  probably  fallen  into  a  deep  sleep,  the  count 
was  not  surprised  on  receiving  no  answer ;  and  leaving  the  door, 
he  went  down  to  walk  in  his  grounds. 

It  was  a  grey  autumnal  morning.  The  sun,  rising  over 
Provence,  gave  only  a  feeble  Ught,  as  his  rays  struggled  through 
the  vapours  that  ascended  from  the  sea,  and  floated  heavily 
over  the  woodtops,  which  were  now  varied  with  many  a  mellow 
tint  of  autumn.  The  storm  was  passed,  but  the  waves  yet 
violently  agitated,  and  their  course  was  traced  by  long  lines  of 
foam,  while  not  a  breeze  fluttered  in  the  sails  of  the  vessels 
near  the  shore  that  were  weighing  anchor  to  depart.  The  still 
gloom  of  the  hour  was  pleasing  to  the  count,  and  he  pursued  his 
way  through  the  woods  sunk  in  deep  thought. 

Emily  also  rose  at  an  early  hour,  and  took  her  customary  walk 
along  the  brow  of  the  promontory  that  overhung  the  Mediter- 
ranean. Her  mind  was  not  now  occupied  with  the  occurrences 
of  the  chateau,  and  Valancourt  was  the  subject  of  her  mournful 
thoughts ;  whom  she  had  not  yet  taught  herself  to  consider 
with  indifference,  though  her  judgment  constantly  reproached 
her  for  the  affection  that  Hngered  in  her  heart,  after  her  esteem  for 
him  was  departed.^ 

As  these  reflections  passed  rapidly  over  the  mind  of  Emily, 

'  Certain  follies  of  which  Valancourt  had  been  guilty  in  Paris  had  been  greatly 
exaggerated  to  Emily  by  Count  de  Villefort,  who  had  misjudged  him. 


624  MI^S.  ANN   RADCLIFFE 

they  called  up  a  variety  of  contending  emotions,  that  almost  over- 
came her  spirits :  but  her  first  impulse  was  to  avoid  him,  and 
immediately  leaving  the  tower,  she  returned  with  hasty  steps 
towards  the  chateau.  As  she  passed  along,  she  remembered  the 
music  she  had  lately  heard  near  the  tower,  with  the  figure  which 
had  appeared  ;  and  in  this  moment  of  agitation  she  was  inclined 
to  believe  that  she  had  then  heard  and  seen  Valancourt;  but 
other  recollections  soon  convinced  her  of  her  error.  On  turning 
into  a  thicker  part  of  the  woods,  she  perceived  a  person  walking 
slowly  in  the  gloom  at  some  little  distance ;  and,  her  mind  engaged 
by  the  idea  of  him,  she  started  and  paused,  imagining  this  to  be 
Valancourt.  The  person  advanced  with  quicker  steps ;  and 
before  she  could  recover  recollection  enough  to  avoid  him,  he 
spoke,  and  she  then  knew  the  voice  of  the  count,  who  expressed 
some  surprise  on  finding  her  walking  at  so  early  an  hour,  and  made 
a  feeble  effort  to  rally  her  on  her  love  of  solitude.  But  he  soon 
perceived  this  to  be  more  a  subject  of  concern  than  of  light 
laughter,  and  changing  his  manner,  affectionately  expostulated 
with  Emily  on  thus  indulging  unavailing  regret,  who,  though  she 
acknowledged  the  justness  of  all  he  said,  could  not  restrain 
her  tears  while  she  did  so,  and  he  presently  quitted  the  topic. 

When  they  returned  to  the  chateau,  Emily  retired  to  her 
apartment,  and  Count  de  Villefort  to  the  door  of  the  north 
chambers.  This  was  still  fastened ;  but  being  now  determined 
to  arouse  Ludovico,  he  renewed  his  calls  more  loudly  than  be- 
fore ;  after  which  a  total  silence  ensued ;  and  the  count,  finding 
all  his  efforts  to  be  heard  ineffectual,'  at  length  began  to  fear 
that  some  accident  had  befallen  Ludovico,  whom  terror  of  an 
imaginary  being  might  have  deprived  of  his  senses.  He  there- 
fore left  the  door  with  an  intention  of  summoning  his  servants 
to  force  it  open,  some  of  whom  he  now  heard  moving  in  the 
lower  part  of  the  chateau. 

To  the  count's  inquiries,  whether  they  had  seen  or  heard 
Ludovico,  they  replied,  in  affright,  that  not  one  of  them  had 
ventured  on  the  north  side  of  the  chateau  since  the  preceding 
night. 

'He  sleeps  soundly  then,'  said  the  count,  'and  is  at  such  a  dis- 
tance from  the  outer  door,  which  is  fastened,  that  to  gain  admit- 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  625 

tance  to  the  chambers  it  will  be  necessary  to  force  it.  Bring  an 
instrument  and  follow  me.' 

The  servant  stood  mute  and  dejected ;  and  it  was  not  till 
nearly  all  the  household  were  assembled,  that  the  count's  orders 
were  obeyed.  In  the  meantime,  Dorothee  was  teUing  of  a  door 
that  opened  from  a  gallery  leading  from  the  great  staircase  into 
the  last  ante-room  of  the  saloon ;  and  this  being  much  nearer 
to  the  bed-chamber,  it  appeared  probable  that  Ludovico  might 
be  easily  awakened  by  an  attempt  to  open  it.  Thither,  there- 
fore, the  count  went :  but  his  voice  was  as  ineffectual  at  this  door 
as  it  had  proved  at  the  remoter  one :  and  now,  seriously  inter- 
ested for  Ludovico,  he  was  himself  going  to  strike  upon  the  door 
with  the  instrument,  when  he  observed  its  singular  beauty,  and 
withheld  the  blow.  It  appeared  on  the  first  glance  to  be  of  ebony, 
so  dark  and  close  was  its  grain,  and  so  high  its  polish ;  but  it 
proved  to  be  only  of  larch  wood,  of  the  growth  of  Provence, 
then  famous  for  its  forests  of  larch.  The  beauty  of  its  polished 
hue,  and  of  its  delicate  carvings,  determined  the  count  to  spare 
this  door,  and  he  returned  to  that  leading  from  the  back  stair- 
case ;  which,  being  at  length  forced,  he  entered  the  first  ante- 
room, followed  by  Henri  and  a  few  of  the  most  courageous  of  his 
servants,  the  rest  awaiting  the  event  of  the  inquiry  on  the  stairs 
and   landing-place. 

All  was  silent  in  the  chambers  through  which  the  count  passed  ; 
and,  having  reached  the  saloon,  he  called  loudly  upon  Ludovico  ; 
after  which,  still  receiving  no  answer,  he  threw  open  the  door  of 
the  bed-room  and  entered. 

The  profound  stillness  within  confirmed  his  apprehensions  for 
Ludovico,  for  not  even  the  breathings  of  a  person  in  sleep  was 
heard ;  and  his  uncertainty  was  soon  terminated,  since,  the 
shutters  being  all  closed,  the  chamber  was  too  dark  for  any 
object  to  be  distinguished  in  it. 

The  count  bade  a  servant  open  them,  who,  as  he  crossed  the 
room  to  do  so,  stumbled  over  something  and  fell  to  the  floor; 
when  his  cry  occasioned  such  panic  among  the  few  of  his  fellows 
who  had  ventured  thus  far,  that  they  instantly  fled,  and  the 
count  and  Henri  were  left  to  finish  the  adventure. 

Henri  then  sprung  across  the  room,  and  opening  a  window-. 


626  MRS.  ANN   RADCLIFFE 

shutter,  they  perceived  that  the  man  had  fallen  over  a  chair 
near  the  hearth  in  which  Ludovico  had  been  sitting ;  —  for  he 
sat  there  no  longer,  nor  could  he  any  where  be  seen  by  the  im- 
perfect light  that  was  admitted  into  the  apartment.  The  count, 
seriously  alarmed,  now  opened  other  shutters,  that  he  might  be 
enabled  to  examine  further ;  and  Ludovico,  not  yet  appearing, 
he  stood  for  a  moment  suspended  in  astonishment,  and  scarcely 
trusting  his  senses,  till  his  eyes  glancing  on  the  bed,  he  advanced 
to  examine  whether  he  was  there  asleep.  No  person,  however,  was 
in  it ;  and  he  proceeded  to  the  oriel,  where  everything  remained  as 
on  the  preceding  night,  but  Ludovico  was  no  where  to  be  found. 

The  count  now  checked  his  amazement,  considering  that 
Ludovico  might  have  left  the  chambers  during  the  night,  over- 
come by  the  terrors  which  their  lonely  desolation  and  the  recol- 
lected reports  concerning  them  had  inspired.  Yet,  if  this  had 
been  the  fact,  the  man  would  naturally  have  sought  society,  and 
his  fellow-servants  had  all  declared  they  had  not  seen  him ;  the 
door  of  the  outer  room  also  had  been  found  fastened  with  the 
key  on  the  inside.  It  was  impossible,  therefore,  for  him  to  have 
passed  through  that ;  and  all  the  outer  doors  of  this  suite  were 
found,  on  examination,  to  be  bolted  and  locked,  with  the  keys 
also  within  them.  The  count,  being  then  compelled  to  believe 
that  the  lad  had  escaped  through  the  casements,  next  examined 
them ;  but  such  as  opened  wide  enough  to  admit  the  body  of  a 
man  were  found  to  be  carefully  secured  either  by  iron  bars  or  by 
shutters,  and  no  vestige  appeared  of  any  person  having  attempted 
to  pass  them  ;  neither  was  it  probable  that  Ludovico  would  have 
incurred  the  risk  of  breaking  his  neck  by  leaping  from  a  window, 
when  he  might  have  walked  safely  through  a  door. 

The  count's  amazement  did  not  admit  of  words ;  but  he  re- 
turned once  more  to  examine  the  bed-room,  where  was  no 
appearance  of  disorder,  except  that  occasioned  by  the  late  over- 
throw of  the  chair,  near  which  had  stood  a  small  table ;  and  on 
this  Ludovico's  sword,  his  lamp,  the  book  he  had  been  reading, 
and  the  remnant  of  his  flask  of  wine,  still  remained.  At  the 
foot  of  the  table,  too,  was  the  basket  with  some  fragments  of 
provision  and  wood. 

Henri  and  the  servant  now  uttered  their  astonishment  without 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  627 

reserve ;  and  though  the  count  said  little,  there  was  a  seriousness 
in  his  manner  that  expressed  much.  It  appeared  that  Ludovico 
must  have  quitted  these  rooms  by  some  concealed  passage,  for 
the  count  could  not  beHeve  that  any  supernatural  means  had 
occasioned  this  event ;  yet,  if  there  was  any  such  passage,  it 
seemed  inexphcable  why  he  should  retreat  through  it ;  and  it 
was  equally  surprising,  that  not  even  the  smallest  vestige  should 
appear,  by  which  his  progress  could  be  traced.  In  the  rooms 
everything  remained  as  much  in  order  as  if  he  had  just  walked 
out  by  the  common  way. 

The  count  himself  assisted  in  lifting  the  arras  with  which  the 
bed-chamber,  saloon,  and  one  of  the  ante-rooms  were  hung,  that 
he  might  discover  if  any  door  had  been  concealed  behind  it ; 
but,  after  a  laborious  search,  none  was  found  :  and  he  at  length 
quitted  the  apartments,  having  secured  the  door  of  the  last 
ante-chamber,  the  key  of  which  he  took  into  his  own  possession. 
He  then  gave  orders  that  strict  search  should  be  made  for  Ludo- 
vico, not  only  in  the  chateau,  but  in  the  neighbourhood ;  and 
retiring  with  Henri  to  his  closet,  they  remained  there  in  conver- 
sation for  a  considerable  time ;  and,  whatever  was  the  subject 
of  it,  Henri  from  this  hour  lost  much  of  his  vivacity,  and  his 
manners  were  particularly  grave  and  reserved  whenever  the 
topic  which  now  agitated  the  count's  family  with  wonder  and 
alarm  was  introduced. 

On  the  disappearing  of  Ludovico,  Baron  St.  Foix  seemed 
strengthened  in  all  his  former  opinions  concerning  the  proba- 
bility of  apparitions,  though  it  was  difi&cult  to  discover  what 
connexion  there  could  possibly  be  between  the  two  subjects, 
or  to  account  for  this  effect,  otherwise  than  by  supposing  that 
the  mystery  attending  Ludovico,  by  exciting  awe  and  curiosity, 
reduced  the  mind  to  a  state  of  sensibility  which  rendered  it  more 
liable  to  the  influence  of  superstition  in  general.  It  is  however 
certain,  that  from  this  period  the  baron  and  his  adherents  became 
more  bigoted  in  their  own  systems  than  before,  while  the  terrors 
of  the  count's  servants  increased  to  an  excess  that  occasioned 
many  of  them  to  quit  the  mansion  immediately,  and  the  rest  re- 
mained only  till  others  could  be  procured  to  supply  their  places. 

The  most   strenuous   search   after  Ludovico   proved   unsuc- 


628  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

cessful;  and  after  several  days  of  indefatigable  inquiry,  poor 
Annette  gave  herself  up  to  despair,  and  the  other  inhabitants 
of  the  chateau  to  amazement. 

Emily,  whose  mind  had  been  deeply  affected  by  the  disas- 
trous fate  of  the  late  marchioness,  and  with  the  mysterious 
connexion  which  she  fancied  had  existed  between  her  and  St. 
Aubert,  was  particularly  impressed  by  the  late  extraordinary 
event,  and  much  concerned  for  the  loss  of  Ludovico.  whose 
integrity  and  faithful  services  claimed  both  her  esteem  and 
gratitude.  She  was  now  very  desirous  to  return  to  the  quiet 
retirement  of  her  convent ;  but  every  hint  of  this  was  received 
with  real  sorrow  by  Lady  Blanche,  and  affectionately  set  aside 
by  the  count,  for  whom  she  felt  much  of  the  respectful  love  and 
admiration  of  a  daughter,  and  to  whom,  by  Dorothee's  consent, 
she  at  length  mentioned  the  appearance  which  they  had  wit- 
nessed in  the  chamber  of  the  deceased  marchioness.  At  any 
other  period  he  would  have  smiled  at  such  a  relation,  and  have 
believed  that  its  object  had  existed  only  in  the  distempered  fancy 
of  the  relater ;  but  he  now  attended  to  Emily  with  seriousness ; 
and,  when  she  concluded,  requested  of  her  a  promise  that  this 
occurrence  should  rest  in  silence.  'Whatever  may  be  the  cause 
and  the  import  of  these  extraordinary  occurrences,'  added  the 
count,  'time  only  can  explain  them.  I  shall  keep  a  wary  eye 
upon  all  that  passes  in  the  chateau,  and  shall  pursue  every  pos- 
sible means  of  discovering  the  fate  of  Ludovico.  Meanwhile, 
we  must  be  prudent  and  silent.  I  will  myself  watch  in  the  north 
chambers ;  but  of  this  we  will  say  nothing  till  the  night  arrives 
when  I  purpose  doing  so.' 

The  count  then  sent  for  Dorothee,  and  required  of  her  also 
a  promise  of  silence  concerning  what  she  had  already,  or  might 
in  future  witness  of  an  extraordinary  nature :  and  this  ancient 
servant  now  related  to  him  the  particulars  of  the  Marchioness 
de  Villeroi's  death,  with  some  of  which  he  appeared  to  be  already 
acquainted,  while  by  others  he  was  evidently  surprised  and 
agitated.  After  listening  to  this  narrative,  the  count  retired 
to  his  closet,  where  he  remained  alone  for  several  hours ;  and 
when  he  again  appeared,  the  solemnity  of  his  manner  surprised 
and  alarmed  Emily,  but  she  gave  no  utterance  to  her  thoughts. 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  629 

CHAPTER  L 

St.  Foix  stopped  to  observe  the  picture  which  the  party  ^ 
in  the  cave  presented,  where  the  elegant  form  of  Blanche  was 
finely  contrasted  by  the  majestic  figure  of  the  count,  who  was 
seated  by  her  on  a  rude  stone ;  and  each  was  rendered  more 
impressive  by  the  grotesque  habits  and  strong  features  of  the 
guides  and  other  attendants,  who  were  in  the  background  of 
the  piece.  The  effect  of  the  light,  too,  was  interesting :  on  the 
surrounding  figures  it  threw  a  strong  though  pale  gleam,  and 
glittered  on  their  bright  arms  ;  while  upon  the  foliage  of  a  gigan- 
tic larch,  that  impended  its  shade  over  the  cliff  above,  appeared 
a  red,  dusky  tint,  deepening  almost  imperceptibly  into  the  black- 
ness of  night. 

While  St.  Foix  contemplated  the  scene,  the  moon,  broad  and 
yellow,  rose  over  the  eastern  summits,  from  among  embattled 
clouds,  and  showed  dimly  the  grandeur  of  the  heavens,  the  mass 
of  vapours  that  rolled  half-way  down  the  precipice  beneath, 
and  the  doubtful  mountains. 

From  this  romantic  reverie  he  was  awakened  by  the  voices  of 
the  guides  repeating  his  name,  which  was  reverberated  from 
cliff  to  cliff,  till  a  hundred  tongues  seemed  to  call  him ;  when  he 
soon  quieted  the  fears  of  the  count  and  the  Lady  Blanche  by 
returning  to  the  cave.  As  the  storm,  however,  seemed  approach- 
ing, they  did  not  quit  their  place  of  shelter;  and  the  count, 
seated  between  his  daughter  and  St.  Foix,  endeavoured  to 
divert  the  fears  of  the  former,  and  conversed  on  subjects  relating 
to  the  natural  history  of  the  scenes  among  which  they  wandered. 

As  Blanche  sat  attentive  to  the  narrative  that  rendered  the 
scenes  doubly  interesting,  and  resigned  to  solemn  emotion,  while 
she  considered  that  she  was  on  the  very  ground  once  polluted 
by  these  events,  her  reverie  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  a  sound 
that  came  on  the  wind  —  it  was  the  distant  bark  of  a  watch-dog. 
The  travellers  Kstened  with  eager  hope,  and,  as  the  wind  blew 
stronger,  fancied  that  the  sound  came  from  no  great  distance; 

1  Count  de  Villefort  and  his  daughter  Blanche  are  returning  home  after  a  visit  to  the 
Chateau  de  St.  Foix,  accompanied  by  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Foix,  Blanche's  betrothed. 


630  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

and  the  guides  having  Httle  doubt  but  that  it  proceeded  from  the 
inn  they  were  in  search  of,  the  count  determined  to  pursue  his 
way.  The  moon  now  afforded  a  stronger  though  still  an  uncer- 
tain light,  as  she  moved  among  broken  clouds ;  and  the  travel- 
lers, led  by  the  sound,  re-commenced  their  journey  along  the 
brow  of  the  precipice,  preceded  by  a  single  torch  that  now 
contended  with  the  moonlight;  for  the  guides,  beHeving  they 
should  reach  the  inn  soon  after  sunset,  had  neglected  to  provide 
more.  In  silent  caution  they  followed  the  sound,  which 
was  heard  but  at  intervals,  and  which,  after  some  time,  entirely 
ceased.  The  guides  endeavoured,  however,  to  point  their  course 
to  the  quarter  whence  it  had  issued ;  but  the  deep  roaring  of  a 
torrent  soon  seized  their  attention,  and  presently  they  came  to 
a  tremendous  chasm  of  the  mountain,  which  seemed  to  forbid 
all  further  progress.  Blanche  ahghted  from  her  mule,  as  did 
the  count  and  St.  Foix,  while  the  guides  traversed  the  edge  in 
search  of  a  bridge,  which,  however  rude,  might  convey  them  to 
the  opposite  side ;  and  they  at  length  confessed,  what  the  count 
had  begun  to  suspect,  that  they  had  been  for  some  time  doubtful 
of  their  way,  and  were  now  certain  only  that  they  had  lost  it. 

At  a  little  distance  was  discovered  a  rude  and  dangerous 
passage,  formed  by  an  enormous  pine,  which,  thrown  across  the 
chasm,  united  the  opposite  precipices,  and  which  had  been  felled 
probably  by  the  hunter  to  facilitate  his  chase  of  the  izard  or  the 
wolf.  The  whole  party,  the  guides  excepted,  shuddered  at  the 
prospect  of  crossing  this  Alpine  bridge,  whose  sides  afforded  no 
kind  of  defence,  and  from  which  to  fall  was  to  die.  The  guides, 
however,  prepared  to  lead  over  the  mules,  while  Blanche  stood 
trembling  on  the  brink  and  Kstening  to  the  roar  of  the  waters, 
which  were  seen  descending  from  rocks  above  overhung  with 
lofty  pines,  and  thence  precipitating  themselves  into  the  deep 
abyss,  where  their  white  surges  gleamed  faintly  in  the  moonlight. 
The  poor  animals  proceeded  over  this  perilous  bridge  with  in- 
stinctive caution,  neither  frightened  by  the  noise  of  the  cataract, 
nor  deceived  by  the  gloom  which  the  impending  foliage  threw 
athwart  their  way.  It  was  now  that  the  solitary  torch,  which 
had  been  hitherto  of  little  service,  was  found  to  be  an  inestimable 
treasure;    and  Blanche,  terrified,  shrinking,  but  endeavouring 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  631 

to  re-collect  all  her  firmness  and  presence  of  mind,  preceded  by 
her  lover  and  supported  by  her  father,  followed  the  red  gleam  of 
the  torch  in  safety  to  the  opposite  cliff. 

As  they  went  on,  the  heights  contracted  and  formed  a  narrow 
pass,  at  the  bottom  of  which  the  torrent  they  had  just  crossed 
was  heard  to  thunder.  But  they  were  again  cheered  by  the 
bark  of  a  dog  keeping  watch,  perhaps  over  the  flocks  of  the 
mountains  to  protect  them  from  the  nightly  descent  of  the  wolves. 
The  sound  was  much  nearer  than  before ;  and  while  they  re- 
joiced in  the  hope  of  soon  reaching  a  place  of  repose,  a  light  was 
seen  to  glimmer  at  a  distance.  It  appeared  at  a  height  consider- 
ably above  the  level  of  their  path,  and  was  lost  and  seen  again, 
as  if  the  waving  branches  of  trees  sometimes  excluded  and  then 
admitted  its  rays.  The  guides  halloed  with  all  their  strength, 
but  the  sound  of  no  human  voice  was  heard  in  return ;  and  at 
length,  as  a  more  effectual  means  of  making  themselves  known, 
they  fired  a  pistol.  But  while  they  listened  in  anxious  expecta- 
tion, the  noise  of  the  explosion  was  alone  heard  echoing  among 
the  rocks,  and  it  gradually  sunk  into  silence,  which  no  friendly 
hint  of  man  disturbed.  The  light,  however,  that  had  been 
seen  before,  now  became  plainer,  and  soon  after  voices  were 
heard  indistinctly  on  the  wind ;  but  upon  the  guides  repeating 
the  call,  the  voices  suddenly  ceased,  and  the  light  disappeared. 

The  Lady  Blanche  was  now  almost  sinking  beneath  the  pres- 
sure of  anxiety,  fatigue,  and  apprehension ;  and  the  united 
efforts  of  the  count  and  St.  Foix  could  scarcely  support  her  spirits. 
As  they  continued  to  advance,  an  object  was  perceived  on  a  point 
of  rock  above,  which,  the  strong  rays  of  the  moon  then  falling 
on  it,  appeared  to  be  a  watch-tower.  The  count,  from  its  situa- 
tion and  some  other  circumstances,  had  little  doubt  that  it  was 
such ;  and  believing  that  the  light  had  proceeded  from  thence, 
he  endeavoured  to  re-animate  his  daughter's  spirits  by  the  near 
prospect  of  shelter  and  repose,  which,  however  rude  the  accom- 
modation, a  ruined  watch-tower  might  afford. 

'Numerous  watch-towers  have  been  erected  among  the 
Pyrenees,'  said  the  count,  anxious  only  to  call  Blanche's  atten- 
tion from  the  subject  of  her  fears ;  '  and  the  method  by  which 
they  give  intelligence  of  the  approach  of  the  enemy  is,  you  know, 


632  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

by  fires  kindled  on  the  summits  of  these  edifices.  Signals  have 
thus  sometimes  been  communicated  from  post  to  post  along  a 
frontier  line  of  several  hundred  miles  in  length.  Then,  as  occa- 
sion may  require,  the  lurking  armies  emerge  from  their  fortresses 
and  the  forests,  and  march  forth  to  defend  perhaps  the  entrance 
of  some  grand  pass,  where,  planting  themselves  on  the  heights, 
they  assail  their  astonished  enemies,  who  wind  along  the  glen 
below,  with  fragments  of  the  shattered  cliff,  and  pour  death  and 
defeat  upon  them.  The  ancient  forts  and  watch-towers  over- 
looking the  grand  passes  of  the  Pyrenees  are  carefully  preserved  ; 
but  some  of  those  in  inferior  stations  have  been  suffered  to  fall 
into  decay,  and  are  now  frequently  converted  into  the  more 
peaceful  habitation  of  the  hunter  or  the  shepherd,  who  after  a 
day  of  toil  retires  hither,  and,  with  his  faithful  dogs,  forgets, 
near  a  cheerful  blaze,  the  labour  of  the  chase,  or  the  anxiety  of 
collecting  his  wandering  flocks,  while  he  is  sheltered  from  the 
nightly  storm.' 

'But  are  they  always  thus  peacefully  inhabited?'  said  the 
Lady  Blanche. 

'No,'  replied  the  count;  'they  are  sometimes  the  asylum  of 
French  and  Spanish  smugglers,  who  cross  the  mountains  with 
contraband  goods  from  their  respective  countries ;  and  the 
latter  are  particularly  numerous,  against  whom  strong  parties 
of  the  king's  troops  are  sometimes  sent.  But  the  desperate 
resolution  of  these  adventurers,  —  who,  knowing  that  if  they 
are  taken  they  must  expiate  the  breach  of  the  law  by  the  most 
cruel  death,  travel  in  large  parties  well  armed,  —  often  daunts 
the  courage  of  the  soldiers.  The  smugglers  who  seek  only 
safety,  never  engage  when  they  can  possibly  avoid  it ;  the  mih- 
tary  also,  who  know  that  in  these  encounters  danger  is  certain, 
and  glory  almost  unattainable,  are  equally  reluctant  to  fight ; 
an  engagement  therefore  very  seldom  happens ;  but  when  it 
does,  it  never  concludes  till  after  the  most  desperate  and  bloody 
conflict.  You  are  inattentive,  Blanche,'  added  the  count: 
'I  have  wearied  you  with  a  dull  subject ;  but  see  yonder,  in  the 
moonHght,  is  the  edifice  we  have  been  in  search  of,  and  we  are 
fortunate  to  be  so  near  it  before  the  storm  bursts.' 

Blanche,  looking  up,  perceived  that  they  were  at  the  foot  of 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  633 

the  cliff,  on  whose  summit  the  building  stood,  but  no  Hght  now- 
issued  from  it ;  the  barking  of  the  dog  too  had  for  some  time 
ceased ;  and  the  guides  began  to  doubt  whether  this  was  really 
the  object  of  their  search.  From  the  distance  at  which  they 
surveyed  it,  shown  imperfectly  by  a  cloudy  moon,  it  appeared 
to  be  of  more  extent  than  a  single  watch-tower ;  but  the  difficulty 
was  how  to  ascend  the  height,  whose  abrupt  acclivities  seemed 
to  afford  no  kind  of  path-way. 

While  the  guides  carried  forward  the  torch  to  examine  the 
cliff,  the  count,  remaining  with  Blanche  and  St.  Foix  at  its  foot, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  woods,  endeavoured  again  to  beguile 
the  time  by  conversation,  but  again  anxiety  abstracted  the  mind 
of  Blanche :  and  he  then  consulted  apart  with  St.  Foix,  whether 
it  would  be  advisable,  should  a  path  be  found,  to  venture  to  an 
edifice  which  might  possibly  harbour  banditti.  They  considered 
that  their  own  party  was  not  small,  and  that  several  of  them  were 
well  armed ;  and  after  enumerating  the  dangers  to  be  incurred 
by  passing  the  night  in  the  open  wild,  exposed  perhaps  to  the 
effects  of  a  thunderstorm,  there  remained  not  a  doubt  that  they 
ought  to  endeavour  to  obtain  admittance  to  the  edifice  above, 
at  any  hazard  respecting  the  inhabitants  it  might  harbour :  but 
the  darkness,  and  the  dead  silence  that  surrounded  it,  appeared 
to  contradict  the  probability  of  its  being  inhabited  at  all. 

A  shout  from  the  guides  aroused  their  attention,  after  which, 
in  a  few  minutes,  one  of  the  count's  servants  returned  with  intel- 
ligence that  a  path  was  found,  and  they  immediately  hastened 
to  join  the  guides,  when  they  all  ascended  a  Httle  winding 
way  cut  in  the  rock  among  the  thickets  of  dwarf  wood,  and  after 
much  toil  and  some  danger  reached  the  summit,  where  several 
ruined  towers  surrounded  by  a  massy  wall  rose  to  their  view, 
partially  illumined  by  the  moonlight.  The  space  around  the 
building  was  silent,  and  apparently  forsaken  :  but  the  count  was 
cautious.  'Step  softly,'  said  he  in  a  low  voice,  'while  we  recon- 
noitre the  edifice.' 

Ha\dng  proceeded  silently  along  for  some  paces,  they  stopped 
at  a  gate  whose  portals  were  terrible  even  in  ruins ;  and,  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  passed  on  to  the  court  of  entrance,  but 
paused  again  at  the  head  of  a  terrace,  which,  branching  from  it, 


634  MRS.   ANN  RADCLIFFE 

ran  along  the  brow  of  a  precipice.  Over  this  rose  the  main  body 
of  the  edifice,  which  was  now  seen  to  be  not  a  watch-tower,  but 
one  of  those  ancient  fortresses  that  from  age  and  neglect  had 
fallen  to  decay.  Many  parts  of  it,  however,  appeared  to  be  still 
entire ;  it  was  built  of  grey  stone,  in  the  heavy  Saxon-Gothic 
style,  with  enormous  round  towers,  buttresses  of  proportionable 
strength,  and  the  arch  of  the  large  gate  which  seemed  to  open 
into  the  hall  of  the  fabric  was  round,  as  was  that  of  a  window 
above.  The  air  of  solemnity  which  must  so  strongly  have 
characterised  the  pile  even  in  the  days  of  its  early  strength, 
was  now  considerably  heightened  by  its  shattered  battlements 
and  half-demolished  walls,  and  by  the  huge  masses  of  ruin  scat- 
tered in  its  wide  area,  now  silent  and  grass-grown.  In  this  court 
of  entrance  stood  the  gigantic  remains  of  an  oak,  that  seemed 
to  have  flourished  and  decayed  with  the  building,  which  it  still 
appeared  frowningly  to  protect  by  the  few  remaining  branches, 
leafless  and  moss-grown,  that  crowned  its  trunk,  and  whose  wide 
extent  told  how  enormous  the  tree  had  been  in  a  former  age. 
This  fortress  was  evidently  once  of  great  strength,  and  from  its 
situation  on  a  point  of  rock  impending  over  a  deep  glen,  had  been 
of  great  power  to  annoy  as  well  as  to  resist :  the  count,  therefore, 
as  he  stood  surveying  it,  was  somewhat  surprised  that  it  had 
been  suffered,  ancient  as  it  was,  to  sink  into  ruins,  and  its  present 
lonely  and  deserted  air  excited  in  his  breast  emotions  of  melancholy 
awe.  While  he  indulged  for  a  moment  these  emotions,  he  thought 
he  heard  a  sound  of  remote  voices  steal  upon  the  stillness  from 
within  the  building,  the  front  of  which  he  again  surveyed  with  scru- 
tinizing eyes,  but  yet  no  light  was  visible.  He  now  determined  to 
walk  round  the  fort,  to  that  remote  part  of  it  whence  he  thought 
the  voices  had  arisen,  that  he  might  examine  whether  any  light 
could  be  discerned  there,  before  he  ventured  to  knock  at  the 
gate :  for  this  purpose  he  entered  upon  the  terrace,  where  the 
remains  of  cannon  were  yet  apparent  in  the  thick  walls :  but 
he  had  not  proceeded  many  paces  when  his  steps  were  sud- 
denly arrested  by  the  loud  barking  of  a  dog  within,  and  which  he 
fancied  to  be  the  same  whose  voice  had  been  the  means  of  bring- 
ing the  travellers  thither.  It  now  appeared  certain  that  the 
place  was  inhabited ;    and  the  count  returned  to  consult  again 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  635 

with  St.  Foix,  whether  he  should  try  to  obtain  admittance,  for 
its  wild  aspect  had  somewhat  shaken  his  former  resolution : 
but  after  a  second  consultation,  he  submitted  to  the  considera- 
tions which  before  determined  him,  and  which  were  strengthened 
by  the  discovery  of  the  dog  that  guarded  the  fort,  as  well  as  by 
the  stillness  that  pervaded  it.  He  therefore  ordered  one  of  his 
servants  to  knock  at  the  gate ;  who  was  advancing  to  obey  him, 
when  a  light  appeared  through  the  loop-hole  of  one  of  the  towers, 
and  the  count  called  loudly :  but  receiving  no  answer,  he  went 
up  to  the  gate  himself,  and  struck  upon  it  with  an  iron  pointed 
pole  which  had  assisted  him  to  climb  the  steep.  When  the 
echoes  had  ceased  that  this  blow  had  awakened,  the  renewed 
barking  —  and  there  were  now  more  than  one  dog  —  was  the 
only  sound  that  was  heard.  The  count  stepped  back  a  few  paces 
to  observe  whether  the  light  was  in  the  tower;  and  perceiving 
that  it  was  gone,  he  returned  to  the  portal,  and  had  lifted  the 
pole  to  strike  again,  when  again  he  fancied  he  heard  the  murmur 
of  voices  within,  and  paused  to  listen.  He  was  confirmed  in 
the  supposition,  but  they  were  too  remote  to  be  heard  otherwise 
than  in  a  murmur,  and  the  count  now  let  the  pole  fall  heavily 
upon  the  gate,  when  almost  immediately  a  profound  silence 
followed.  It  was  apparent  that  the  people  within  had  heard 
the  sound,  and  their  caution  in  admitting  strangers  gave  him  a 
favourable  opinion  of  them.  'They  are  either  hunters  or  shep- 
herds,' said  he,  'who,  like  ourselves,  have  probably  sought  shelter 
from  the  night  within  these  walls,  and  are  fearful  of  admitting 
strangers,  lest  they  should  prove  robbers.  I  will  endeavour 
to  remove  their  fears.'  So  saying,  he  called  aloud,  'We  are 
friends,  who  ask  shelter  from  the  night.'  In  a  few  moments 
steps  were  heard  within,  which  approached,  and  a  voice  then 
inquired  —  'Who  calls?'  'Friends,'  repeated  the  count :  'open 
the  gates,  and  you  shall  know  more.'  Strong  bolts  were  now 
heard  to  be  undrawn,  and  a  man  armed  with  a  hunting-spear 
appeared.  'What  is  it  you  want  at  this  hour?'  said  he.  The 
count  beckoned  his  attendants,  and  then  answered,  that  he 
wished  to  inquire  the  way  to  the  nearest  cabin.  'Are  you  so 
little  acquainted  with  these  mountains,'  said  the  man,  'as  not 
to  know  that  there  is  none  within  several  leagues  ?     I  cannot 


636  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

show  you  the  way ;  you  must  seek  it  —  there's  a  moon.'  Say- 
ing this,  he  was  closing  the  gate,  and  the  count  was  turning  away 
half  disappointed  and  half  afraid,  when  another  voice  was  heard 
from  above ;  and  on  looking  up,  he  saw  a  light  and  a  man's  face 
at  the  grate  of  the  portal.  'Stay,  friend,  you  have  lost  your 
way?'  said  the  voice.  'You  are  hunters,  I  suppose,  like  our- 
selves? I  will  be  with  you  presently.'  The  voice  ceased,  and 
the  light  disappeared.  Blanche  had  been  alarmed  by  the 
appearance  of  the  man  who  had  opened  the  gate,  and  she  now 
entreated  her  father  to  quit  the  place :  but  the  count  had  ob- 
served the  hunter's  spear  which  he  carried,  and  the  words  from 
the  tower  encouraged  him  to  await  the  event.  The  gate  was 
soon  opened  :  and  several  men  in  hunters'  habits,  who  had  heard 
above  what  had  passed  below,  appeared;  and  having  listened 
some  time  to  the  count,  told  him  he  was  welcome  to  rest  there 
for  the  night.  They  then  pressed  him  with  much  courtesy  to 
enter,  and  to  partake  of  such  fare  as  they  were  about  to  sit  down 
to.  The  count,  who  had  observed  them  attentively  while  they 
spoke,  was  cautious  and  somewhat  suspicious ;  but  he  was  also 
weary,  fearful  of  the  approaching  storm,  and  of  encountering 
Alpine  heights  in  the  obscurity  of  night :  being  likewise  somewhat 
confident  in  the  strength  and  number  of  his  attendants,  he,  after 
some  further  consideration,  determined  to  accept  the  invitation. 
With  this  resolution  he  called  his  servants,  who  advancing  round 
the  tower,  behind  which  some  of  them  had  silently  listened  to 
this  conference,  followed  their  lord,  the  Lady  Blanche,  and  St. 
Foix,  into  the  fortress.  The  strangers  led  them  on  to  a  large 
and  rude  hall,  partially  seen  by  a  fire  that  blazed  at  its  extremity, 
round  which  four  men  in  the  hunter's  dress  were  seated,  and  on 
the  hearth  were  several  dogs  stretched  in  sleep.  In  the  middle 
of  the  hall  stood  a  large  table,  and  over  the  fire  some  part  of 
an  animal  was  boiling.  As  the  count  approached,  the  men 
arose :  and  the  dogs,  half  raising  themselves,  looked  fiercely  at 
the  strangers,  but  on  hearing  their  masters'  voices,  kept  their 
pKDstures  on  the  hearth. 

Blanche  looked  round  this  gloomy  and  spacious  hall ;  then  at 
the  men,  and  to  her  father,  who,  smiling  cheerfully  at  her,  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  hunters.     'This  is  an  hospitable  hearth,' 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  637 

said  he :  '  the  blaze  of  the  fire  is  reviving  after  having  wandered 
so  long  in  these  dreary  wilds.  Your  dogs  are  tired ;  what  suc- 
cess have  you  had?'  'Such  as  we  usually  have,'  repHed  one  of 
the  men,  who  had  been  seated  in  the  hall ;  'we  kill  our  game  with 
tolerable  certainty.'  —  'These  are  fellow-hunters,'  said  one  of 
the  men  who  had  brought  the  count  hither,  '  that  have  lost  their 
way,  and  I  have  told  them  there  is  room  enough  in  the  fort  for 
us  all.'  —  'Very  true,  very  true,'  replied  his  companion:  'what 
luck  have  you  had  in  the  chase,  brothers?'  'We  have  killed 
two  izards,  and  that  you  will  say  is  pretty  well.'  —  'You  mistake, 
friend,'  said  the  count;  'we  are  not  hunters,  but  travellers; 
but  if  you  will  admit  us  to  hunters'  fare  we  shall  be  well  con- 
tented, and  will  repay  your  kindness.'  —  'Sit  down  then,  brother,' 
said  one  of  the  men :  'Jacques,  lay  more  fuel  on  the  fire,  the  kid 
will  soon  be  ready ;  bring  a  seat  for  the  lady  too.  Ma'mselle, 
will  you  taste  our  brandy?  it  is  true  Barcelona,  and  as  bright  as 
ever  flowed  from  a  keg.'  Blanche  timidly  smiled,  and  was  going 
to  refuse,  when  her  father  prevented  her,  by  taking,  with  a  good- 
humoured  air,  the  glass  offered  to  his  daughter;  and  Monsieur 
St.  Foix,  who  was  seated  next  her,  pressed  her  hand,  and  gave  her 
an  encouraging  look ;  but  her  attention  was  engaged  by  a  man 
who  sat  silently  by  the  fire,  observing  St.  Foix  with  a  steady  and 
earnest  eye. 

'You  lead  a  jolly  life  here,'  said  the  count.  'The  life  of  a 
hunter  is  a  pleasant  and  a  healthy  one ;  and  the  repose  is  sweet 
which  succeeds  to  your  labour.' 

'Yes,'  replied  one  of  the  hosts,  'our  hfe  is  pleasant  enough. 
We  live  here  only  during  the  summer  and  autumnal  months ; 
in  winter  the  place  is  dreary,  and  the  swollen  torrents  that 
descend  from  the  heights  put  a  stop  to  the  chase.' 

'  'Tis  a  hfe  of  Hberty  and  enjoyment,'  said  the  count :  '  I  should 
like  to  pass  a  month  in  your  way  very  well.' 

'  We  find  employment  for  our  guns  too,'  said  a  man  who  stood 
behind  the  count :  'here  are  plenty  of  birds  of  delicious  flavour, 
that  feed  upon  the  wild  thyme  and  herbs  that  grow  in  the  valleys. 
Now  I  think  of  it,  there  is  a  brace  of  birds  hung  up  in  the  stone 
gallery;   go  fetch  them,  Jacques;   we  will  have  them  dressed.' 

The  count  now  made  inquiry  concerning  the  method  of  pur- 


638  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

suing  the  chase  among  the  rocks  and  precipices  of  these  romantic 
regions,  and  was  Hstening  to  a  curious  detail,  when  a  horn  was 
sounded  at  the  gate.  Blanche  looked  timidly  at  her  father,  who 
continued  to  converse  on  the  subject  of  the  chase,  but  whose 
countenance  was  somewhat  expressive  of  anxiety,  and  who  often 
turned  his  eyes  towards  that  part  of  the  hall  nearest  the  gate. 
The  horn  sounded  again,  and  a  loud  halloo  succeeded.  'There 
are  some  of  our  companions  returned  from  their  day's  labour,' 
said  a  man,  going  lazily  from  his  seat  towards  the  gate  ;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  two  men  appeared,  each  with  a  gun  over  his  shoulder 
and  pistols  in  his  belt.  'What  cheer,  my  lads?  what  cheer?' 
said  they,  as  they  approached.  'What  luck?'  returned  their 
companions  :  '  have  you  brought  home  your  supper  ?  You  shall 
have  none  else.' 

'  Hah  !  who  the  devil  have  you  brought  home  ? '  said  they  in 
bad  Spanish,  on  perceiving  the  count's  party;  'are  they  from 
France,  or  Spain  ?  —  where  did  you  meet  with  them  ? ' 

'They  met  with  us;  and  a  merry  meeting  too,'  replied  his 
companion  aloud  in  good  French.  'This  chevalier  and  his 
party  had  lost  their  way,  and  asked  a  night's  lodging  in  the  fort.' 
The  others  made  no  reply,  but  threw  down  a  kind  of  knapsack, 
and  drew  forth  several  brace  of  birds.  The  bag  sounded  heavily 
as  it  fell  to  the  ground,  and  the  glitter  of  some  bright  metal 
within  glanced  on  the  eye  of  the  count,  who  now  surveyed  with 
a  more  inquiring  look  the  man  that  held  the  knapsack.  He  was 
a  tall,  robust  figure,  of  a  hard  countenance,  and  had  short  black 
hair  curling  on  his  neck.  Instead  of  the  hunter's  dress,  he  wore 
a  faded  military  uniform  :  sandals  were  laced  on  his  broad  legs  : 
and  a  kind  of  short  trowsers  hung  from  his  waist.  On  his  head 
he  wore  a  leather  cap,  somewhat  resembling  in  shape  an  ancient 
Roman  helmet;  but  the  brows  that  scowled  beneath  it  would 
have  characterised  those  of  the  barbarians  who  conquered 
Rome,  rather  than  those  of  a  Roman  soldier.  The  count  at 
length  turned  away  his  eyes,  and  remained  silent  and  thoughtful, 
till,  again  raising  them,  he  perceived  a  figure  standing  in  an 
obscure  part  of  the  hall,  fixed  in  attentive  gaze  on  St.  Foix,  who 
was  conversing  with  Blanche,  and  did  not  observe  this ;  but  the 
count  soon  after  saw  the  same  man  looking  over  the  shoulder 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  639 

of  the  soldier  as  attentively  at  himself.  He  withdrew  his  eye 
when  that  of  the  count  met  it,  who  felt  mistrust  gathering  fast 
upon  his  mind,  but  feared  to  betray  it  in  his  countenance,  and, 
forcing  his  features  to  assume  a  smile,  addressed  Blanche  on  some 
indifferent  subject.  When  he  again  looked  round,  he  perceived 
that  the  soldier  and  his  companion  were  gone. 

The  man  who  was  called  Jacques  now  returned  from  the  stone 
gallery.  'A  fire  is  lighted  there,'  said  he,  'and  the  birds  are 
dressing ;  the  table,  too,  is  spread  there,  for  that  place  is  warmer 
than  this.' 

His  companions  approved  of  the  removal,  and  invited  their 
guests  to  follow  to  the  gallery ;  of  whom  Blanche  appeared 
distressed  and  remained  silent,  and  St.  Foix  looked  at  the 
count,  who  said  he  preferred  the  comfortable  blaze  of  the  fire 
he  was  then  near.  The  hunters,  however,  commended  the 
warmth  of  the  other  apartment,  and  pressed  his  removal  with 
such  seeming  courtesy,  that  the  count,  half  doubting  and  half 
fearful  of  betraying  his  doubts,  consented  to  go.  The  long  and 
ruinous  passages  through  which  they  went,  somewhat  daunted 
him ;  but  the  thunder,  which  now  burst  in  loud  peals  above, 
made  it  dangerous  to  quit  this  place  of  shelter,  and  he  forebore 
to  provoke  his  conductors  by  showing  that  he  distrusted  them. 
The  hunters  led  the  way  with  a  lamp :  the  count  and  St.  Foix, 
who  wished  to  please  their  hosts  by  some  instances  of  familiar- 
ity, carried  each  a  seat,  and  Blanche  followed  with  faltering 
steps.  As  she  passed  on,  part  of  her  dress  caught  on  a  nail  in 
the  wall ;  and  while  she  stopped,  somewhat  too  scrupulously, 
to  disengage  it,  the  count,  who  was  talking  to  St.  Foix,  and 
neither  of  whom  observed  the  circumstance,  followed  their 
conductor  round  an  abrupt  angle  of  the  passage,  and  Blanche 
was  left  behind  in  darkness.  The  thunder  prevented  them  from 
hearing  her  call ;  but,  having  disengaged  her  dress,  she  quickly 
followed,  as  she  thought,  the  way  they  had  taken.  A  light  that 
glimmered  at  a  distance  confirmed  this  belief ;  and  she  proceeded 
towards  an  open  door  whence  it  issued,  conjecturing  the  room 
beyond  to  be  the  stone  gallery  the  men  had  spoken  of.  Hear- 
ing voices  as  she  advanced,  she  paused  within  a  few  paces  of  the 
chamber,   that  she  might  be  certain  whether  she  was  right ; 


640  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

and  from  thence,  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  that  hung  from  the  ceil- 
ing, observed  four  men  seated  round  a  table,  over  which  they 
leaned  in  apparent  consultation.  In  one  of  them  she  distin- 
guished the  features  of  him  whom  she  had  observed  gazing  at 
St.  Foix  with  such  deep  attention ;  and  who  was  now  speaking 
in  an  earnest,  though  restrained  voice,  till  one  of  his  companions 
seeming  to  oppose  him,  they  spoke  together  in  a  loud  and  harsher 
tone.  Blanche,  alarmed  by  perceiving  that  neither  her  father 
nor  St.  Foix  was  there,  and  terrified  at  the  fierce  countenances 
and  manners  of  these  men,  was  turning  hastily  from  the  chamber 
to  pursue  her  search  of  the  gallery,  when  she  heard  one  of  the 
men  say : 

'Let  all  dispute  end  here.  Who  talks  of  danger?  Follow 
my  advice,  and  there  will  be  none  —  secure  them,  and  the  rest 
are  an  easy  prey.'  Blanche,  struck  with  these  words,  paused 
a  moment  to  hear  more.  'There  is  nothing  to  be  got  by  the 
rest,'  said  one  of  his  companions ;  'I  am  never  for  blood  when  I 
can  help  it  —  dispatch  the  two  others,  and  our  business  is  done : 
the  rest  may  go.' 

'  May  they  so  ! '  exclaimed  the  first  ruffian  with  a  tremendous 
oath  —  'What  !  to  tell  how  we  have  disposed  of  their  master,  and 
to  send  the  king's  troops  to  drag  us  to  the  wheel !  You  was 
always  a  choice  adviser  —  I  warrant  we  have  not  yet  forgot  St. 
Thomas's  eve,  last  year.' 

Blanche's  heart  now  sunk  with  horror.  Her  first  impulse 
was  to  retreat  from  the  door ;  but  when  she  would  have  gone, 
her  trcmbhng  frame  refused  to  support  her,  and  having  tottered 
a  few  paces  to  a  more  obscure  part  of  the  passage,  she  was  com- 
pelled to  listen  to  the  dreadful  counsels  of  those  who,  she  was 
no  longer  suffered  to  doubt,  were  banditti.  In  the  next  moment 
she  heard  the  following  words:  'Why,  you  would  not  murder 
the  whole  gang?' 

'I  warrant  our  lives  arc  as  good  as  theirs,'  replied  his  com- 
rade. 'If  wc  don't  kill  them,  they  will  hang  us:  better  they 
should  die  than  we  be  hanged.' 

'Better,  better,'  cried  his  comrades. 

'To  commit  murder  is  a  hopeful  way  of  escaping  the  gal- 
lows !'  said  the  first  ruflian  —  'many  an  honest  fellow  has  run 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  641 

his  head  into  the  noose  that  way,  though.'     There  was  a  pause 
for  some  moments,  during  which  they  appeared  to  be  considering. 

'Confound  those  fellows,'  exclaimed  one  of  the  robbers  im- 
patiently, '  they  ought  to  have  been  here  by  this  time  ;  they  will 
come  back  presently  with  the  old  story,  and  no  booty ;  if  they 
were  here,  our  business  would  be  plain  and  easy.  I  see  we  shall 
not  be  able  to  do  business  to-night,  for  our  numbers  are  not 
equal  to  the  enemy  ;  and  in  the  morning  they  will  be  for  marching 
off,  and  how  can  we  detain  them  without  force  ? ' 

'I  have  been  thinking  of  a  scheme  that  will  do,'  said  one  of 
his  comrades;  'if  we  can  dispatch  the  two  chevahers  silently, 
it  will  be  easy  to  master  the  rest.' 

'That's  a  plausible  scheme,  in  good  faith  !'  said  another  with 
a  smile  of  scorn  —  '  If  I  can  eat  my  way  through  the  prison-wall, 
I  shall  be  at  liberty  !  —  How  can  we  dispatch  them  silently?' 

'By  poison,'  rephed  his  companions. 

'Well  said  !  that  will  do,'  said  the  second  rufhan;  'that  will 
give  a  lingering  death  too,  and  satisfy  my  revenge.  These  barons 
shall  take  care  how  they  again  tempt  our  vengeance.' 

'I  knew  the  son  the  moment  I  saw  him,'  saW  the  man  whom 
Blanche  had  observed  gazing  on  St.  Foix,  'though  he  does  not 
know  me ;    the  father  I  had  almost  forgotten.' 

'Well,  you  may  say  what  you  will,'  said  the  third  ruffian, 
'but  I  don't  believe  he  is  the  baron ;  and  I  am  as  hkcly  to  know 
as  any  of  you,  for  I  was  one  of  them  that  attacked  him  with  our 
brave  lads  that  suffered.' 

'And  was  not  I  another?'  said  the  first  ruffian.  'I  tell  you 
he  is  the  baron ;  but  what  does  it  signify  whether  he  is  or  not  ? 
—  shall  we  let  all  this  booty  go  out  of  our  hands  ?  It  is  not  often 
we  have  such  luck  as  this.  While  wc  run  the  chance  of  the  wheel 
for  smuggling  a  few  pounds  of  tobacco,  to  cheat  the  king's  manu- 
factory, and  of  breaking  our  necks  down  the  precipices  in  chase 
of  our  food ;  and  now  and  then  rob  a  brother  smuggler,  or  a 
stragghng  pilgrim,  of  what  scarcely  repays  us  the  powder  we 
fire  at  them ;  shall  we  let  such  a  prize  as  this  go  ?  Why,  they 
have  enough  about  them  to  keep  us  for ' 

'I  am  not  for  that,  I  am  not  for  that,'  replied  the  third  robber ; 
'let  us  make  the  most  of  them.     Only,  if  this  is  the  baron,  I 


642  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

should  like  to  have  a  flash  the  more  at  him,  for  the  sake  of  our 
brave  comrades  that  he  brought  to  the  gallows.' 

'Aye,  aye,  flash  as  much  as  you  will,'  rejoined  the  first  man, 
'but  I  tell  you  the  baron  is  a  taller  man.' 

'Confound  your  quibbling,'  said  the  second  ruffian.  'Shall 
we  let  them  go  or  not  ?  If  we  stay  here  much  longer  they  will 
take  the  hint,  and  march  off  without  our  leave.  Let  them  be 
who  they  will,  they  are  rich,  or  why  all  those  servants  ?  Did  you 
see  the  ring  he  whom  you  call  the  baron  had  on  his  finger  ?  — 
it  was  a  diamond  ;  but  he  has  not  got  it  on  now  :  he  saw  me  look- 
ing at  it,  I  warrant,  and  took  it  off.' 

'Aye,  and  then  there  is  the  picture;  did  you  see  that?  She 
has  not  taken  that  off,'  observed  the  first  ruffian,  'it  hangs  at 
her  neck ;  if  it  had  not  sparkled  so,  I  should  not  have  found 
it  out,  for  it  was  almost  hid  by  her  dress :  those  are  diamonds 
too,  and  a  rare  many  of  them  there  must  be  to  go  round  such  a 
large  picture.' 

*  But  how  are  we  to  manage  this  business  ? '  said  the  second 
ruffian,  'let  us  talk  of  that ;  there  is  no  fear  of  there  being  booty 
enough,  but  how  are  we  to  secure  it  ? ' 

'Aye,  aye,'  said  his  comrades ;  'let  us  talk  of  that,  and  remem- 
ber no  time  is  to  be  lost.' 

'I  am  still  for  poison,'  observed  the  third  :  'but  consider  their 
number ;  why  there  are  nine  or  ten  of  them,  and  armed  too ; 
when  I  saw  so  many  at  the  gate,  I  was  for  not  letting  them  in, 
you  know,  nor  you  either.' 

'I  thought  they  might  be  some  of  our  enemies,'  replied  the 
second;    'I  did  not  so  much  mind  numbers.' 

'But  you  must  mind  them  now,'  rejoined  his  comrade,  'or  it 
will  be  worse  for  you.  We  are  not  more  than  six,  and  how  can 
we  master  ten  by  open  force  ?  I  tell  you  we  must  give  some  of 
them  a  dose,  and  the  rest  may  then  be  managed.' 

'I'll  tell  you  a  better  way,'  rejoined  the  other  impatiently; 
'draw  closer.' 

Blanche,  who  had  listened  to  this  conversation  in  an  agony 
which  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe,  could  no  longer  distin- 
guish what  was  said,  for  the  ruffians  now  spoke  in  lowered  voices ; 
but  the  hope  that  she  might  save  her  friends  from  the  plot,  if 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  643 

she  could  find  her  way  quickly  to  them,  suddenly  re-animated 
her  spirits,  and  lent  her  strength  enough  to  turn  her  steps  in 
search  of  the  gallery.  Terror,  however,  and  darkness  conspired 
against  her ;  and  having  moved  a  few  yards,  the  feeble  light 
that  issued  from  the  chamber  no  longer  even  contended  with 
the  gloom,  and  her  foot  stumbling  over  a  step  that  crossed  the 
passage,  she  fell  to  the  ground. 

The  noise  startled  the  banditti,  who  became  suddenly  silent, 
and  then  all  rushed  to  the  passage,  to  examine  whether  any 
person  was  there  who  might  have  overheard  their  counsels. 
Blanche  saw  them  approaching,  and  perceived  their  fierce  and 
eager  looks ;  but  before  she  could  raise  herself,  they  discovered 
and  seized  her;  and  as  they  dragged  her  towards  the  chamber 
they  had  quitted,  her  screams  drew  from  them  horrible  threat- 
enings. 

Having  reached  the  room,  they  began  to  consult  what  they 
should  do  with  her.  'Let  us  first  know  what  she  has  heard,' 
said  the  chief  robber.  '  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  passage, 
lady,  and  what  brought  you  there  ? ' 

'Let  us  first  secure  that  picture,'  said  one  of  his  comrades, 
approaching  the  trembling  Blanche.  'Fair  lady,  by  your  leave, 
that  picture ;   come,  surrender  it,  or  I  shall  seize  it.' 

Blanche,  entreating  their  mercy,  immediately  gave  up  the 
miniature,  while  another  of  the  ruffians  fiercely  interrogated  her 
concerning  what  she  had  overheard  of  their  conversation ;  when 
her  confusion  and  terror  too  plainly  telling  what  her  tongue  feared 
to  confess,  the  ruffians  looked  expressively  upon  one  another, 
and  two  of  them  withdrew  to  a  remote  part  of  the  room,  as  if 
to  consult  further. 

'  These  are  diamonds  by  St.  Peter  !'  exclaimed  the  fellow  who 
had  been  examining  the  miniature,  'and  here  is  a  very  pretty 
picture  too,  'faith ;  as  handsome  a  young  chevalier  as  you  would 
wish  to  see  by  a  summer's  sun.  Lady,  this  is  your  spouse,  I 
warrant,  for  it  is  the  spark  that  was  in  your  company  just  now.' 

Blanche,  sinking  with  terror,  conjured  him  to  have  pity  on 
her,  and,  delivering  him  her  purse,  promised  to  say  nothing  of 
what  had  passed  if  he  would  suffer  her  to  return  to  her  friends. 

He  smiled  ironically,  and  was  going  to  reply,  when  his  atten- 


644  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

tion  was  called  off  by  a  distant  noise ;  and  while  he  listened,  he 
grasped  the  arm  of  Blanche  more  firmly,  as  if  he  feared  she  would 
escape  from  him,  and  she  again  shrieked  for  help. 

The  approaching  sounds  called  the  ruffians  from  the  other 
part  of  the  chamber.  'We  are  betrayed,'  said  they;  'but  let 
us  Hsten  a  moment,  perhaps  it  is  only  our  comrades  come  in 
from  the  mountains,  and  if  so,  our  work  is  sure  —  listen  !' 

A  distant  discharge  of  shot  confirmed  this  supposition  for  a 
moment :  but  in  the  next,  the  former  sounds  drawing  nearer, 
the  clashing  of  swords,  mingled  with  the  voices  of  loud  contention 
and  with  heavy  groans,  was  distinguished  in  the  avenue  leading 
to  the  chamber.  While  the  ruffians  prepared  their  arms,  they 
heard  themselves  called  by  some  of  their  comrades  afar  off,  and 
then  a  shrill  horn  was  sounded  without  the  fortress,  a  signal,  it 
appeared,  they  too  well  understood ;  for  three  of  them,  leaving 
the  Lady  Blanche  to  the  care  of  the  fourth,  instantly  rushed 
from  the  chamber. 

While  Blanche,  trembling  and  nearly  fainting,  was  supplicat- 
ing for  release,  she  heard  amid  the  tumult  that  approached,  the 
voice  of  St.  Foix ;  and  she  had  scarcely  renewed  her  shriek,  when 
the  door  of  the  room  was  thrown  open,  and  he  appeared  much 
disfigured  with  blood,  and  pursued  by  several  ruffians.  Blanche 
neither  saw  nor  heard  any  more ;  her  head  swam,  her  sight  failed, 
and  she  became  senseless  in  the  arms  of  the  robber  who  had 
detained  her. 

When  she  recovered,  she  perceived,  by  the  gloomy  light  that 
trembled  round  her,  that  she  was  in  the  same  chamber ;  but 
neither  the  count,  St.  Foix,  nor  any  other  person  appeared,  and 
she  continued  for  some  time  entirely  still,  and  nearly  in  a  state 
of  stupefaction.  But  the  dreadful  images  of  the  past  returning, 
she  endeavoured  to  raise  herself,  that  she  might  seek  her  friends  ; 
when  a  sullen  groan  at  a  little  distance  reminded  her  of  St.  Foix, 
and  of  the  condition  in  which  she  had  seen  him  enter  this  room ; 
then,  starting  from  the  floor  by  a  sudden  effort  of  horror,  she 
advanced  to  the  place  whence  the  sound  had  proceeded,  where 
a  body  was  lying  stretched  upon  the  pavement,  and  where,  by 
the  ghmmering  light  of  a  lamp,  she  discovered  the  pale  and 
disfigured  countenance  of  St.  Foix.     Her  horrors  at  that  moment 


THE   MYSTERIES  OF   UDOLPHO  645 

may  be  easily  imagined.  He  was  speechless ;  his  eyes  were 
half  closed ;  and  on  the  hand  which  she  grasped  in  the  agony 
of  despair  cold  damps  had  settled.  While  she  vainly  repeated 
his  name,  and  called  for  assistance,  steps  approached,  and  a 
person  entered  the  chamber,  who,  she  soon  perceived,  was  not 
the  count  her  father;  but  what  was  her  astonishment,  when, 
supplicating  him  to  give  his  assistance  to  St.  Foix,  she  discovered 
Ludovico  !  He  scarcely  paused  to  recognise  her,  but  imme- 
diately bound  up  the  wounds  of  the  chevalier,  and  perceiving 
that  he  had  fainted  probably  from  loss  of  blood,  ran  for  water ; 
but  he  had  been  absent  only  a  few  moments,  when  Blanche  heard 
other  steps  approaching ;  and  while  she  was  almost  frantic  with 
apprehension  of  the  ruffians,  the  light  of  a  torch  flashed  upon  the 
walls,  and  then  Count  de  Villefort  appeared  with  an  affrighted 
countenance,  and  breathless  with  impatience,  calling  upon  his 
daughter.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  rose,  and  ran  to  his 
arms,  while  he,  letting  fall  the  bloody  sword  he  held,  pressed  her 
to  his  bosom  in  a  transport  of  gratitude  and  joy,  and  then 
hastily  inquired  for  St.  Foix,  who  now  gave  some  signs  of  life. 
Ludovico  soon  after  returning  with  water  and  brandy,  the 
former  was  applied  to  his  lips,  and  the  latter  to  his  temples  and 
hands,  and  Blanche,  at  length,  saw  him  unclose  his  eyes,  and  then 
heard  him  inquire  for  her :  but  the  joy  she  felt  on  this  occasion 
was  interrupted  by  new  alarms,  when  Ludovico  said  it  would 
be  necessary  to  remove  Mons.  St.  Foix  immediately,  and  added, 
'The  banditti  that  are  out,  my  lord,  were  expected  home  an 
hour  ago,  and  they  will  certainly  find  us  if  we  delay.  That  shrill 
horn,  they  know,  is  never  sounded  by  their  comrades  but  on  most 
desperate  occasions,  and  it  echoes  among  the  mountains  for  many 
leagues  round.  I  have  known  them  brought  home  by  its  sound 
even  from  the  Pied  de  Melicant.  Is  any  one  standing  watch  at 
the  great  gate,  my  lord  ? ' 

'Nobody,'  replied  the  count;  'the  rest  of  my  people  are  now 
scattered  about,  I  scarcely  know  where.  Go,  Ludovico,  collect 
them  together,  and  look  out  yourself,  and  listen  if  you  hear 
the  feet  of  mules.' 

Ludovico  then  hurried  away,  and  the  count  consulted  as  to 
the  means  of  removing  St.  Foix,  who  could  not  have  borne  the 


646  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

motion  of  a  mule,  even  if  his  strength  would  have  supported 
him  in  the  saddle. 

While  the  count  was  telling  that  the  banditti,  whom  they  had 
found  in  the  fort,  were  secured  in  the  dungeon,  Blanche  observed 
that  he  was  himself  wounded,  and  that  his  left  arm  was  entirely 
useless ;  but  he  smiled  at  her  anxiety,  assuring  her  the  wound 
was  trifling. 

The  count's  servants,  except  two  who  kept  watch  at  the  gate, 
now  appeared,  and  soon  after  Ludovico.  'I  think  I  hear  mules 
coming  along  the  glen,  my  lord,'  said  he,  'but  the  roaring  of  the 
torrent  below  will  not  let  me  be  certain  :  however,  I  have  brought 
what  will  serve  the  chevalier,'  he  added,  showing  a  bear's  skin 
fastened  to  a  couple  of  long  poles,  which  had  been  adapted  for 
the  purpose  of  bringing  home  such  of  the  banditti  as  happened 
to  be  wounded  in  their  encounters.  Ludovico  spread  it  on  the 
ground,  and,  placing  the  skins  of  several  goats  upon  it,  made  a 
kind  of  bed,  into  which  the  chevalier,  who  was  however  now 
much  revived,  was  gently  lifted  ;  and  the  poles  being  raised  upon 
the  shoulders  of  the  guides,  whose  footing  among  these  steeps 
could  best  be  depended  upon,  he  was  borne  along  with  an  easy 
motion.  Some  of  the  count's  servants  were  also  wounded,  but 
not  materially ;  and  their  wounds  being  bound  up,  they  now 
followed  to  the  great  gate.  As  they  passed  along  the  hall,  a  loud 
tumult  was  heard  at  some  distance,  and  Blanche  was  terrified. 
'It  is  only  those  villains  in  the  dungeon,  my  lady,'  said  Ludovico. 
'They  seem  to  be  bursting  it  open,'  said  the  count.  'No,  my 
lord,'  replied  Ludovico,  'it  has  an  iron  door;  we  have  nothing 
to  fear  from  them ;  but  let  me  go  first,  and  look  out  from  the 
rampart.' 

They  quickly  followed  him,  and  found  their  mules  browsing 
before  the  gates,  where  the  party  listened  anxiously,  but  heard 
no  sound,  except  that  of  the  torrent  below,  and  of  the  early 
breeze  sighing  among  the  branches  of  the  old  oak  that  grew  in 
the  court ;  and  they  were  now  glad  to  perceive  the  first  tints  of 
dawn  over  the  mountain-tops.  When  they  had  mounted  their 
mules,  Ludovico,  undertaking  to  be  their  guide,  led  them  by  an 
easier  path  than  that  by  which  they  had  formerly  ascended 
into  the  glen.     'We  must  avoid  that  valley  to  the  east,  my  lord,' 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  647 

said  he,  'or  we  may  meet  the  banditti;  they  went  out  that 
way  in  the  morning.' 

The  travellers,  soon  after,  quitted  this  glen,  and  found  them- 
selves in  a  narrow  valley  that  stretched  towards  the  north-west. 
The  morning-light  upon  the  mountains  now  strengthened  fast, 
and  gradually  discovered  the  green  hillocks  that  skirted  the 
winding  feet  of  the  cliffs,  tufted  with  cork-tree  and  evergreen 
oak.  The  thunder-clouds,  being  dispersed,  had  left  the  sky 
perfectly  serene,  and  Blanche  was  revived  by  the  fresh  breeze  and 
by  the  view  of  verdure  which  the  late  rain  had  brightened. 
Soon  after,  the  sun  arose,  when  the  dripping  rocks,  with  the 
shrubs  that  fringed  their  summits,  and  many  a  turfy  slope 
below,  sparkled  in  his  rays.  A  wreath  of  mist  was  seen  floating 
along  the  extremity  of  the  valley ;  but  the  gale  bore  it  before 
the  travellers,  and  the  sunbeams  gradually  drew  it  up  towards 
the  summit  of  the  mountains.  They  had  proceeded  about  a 
league,  when  St.  Foix  having  complained  of  extreme  faintness, 
they  stopped  to  give  him  refreshment,  and  that  the  men  who 
bore  him  might  rest.  Ludovico  had  brought  from  the  fort  some 
flasks  of  rich  Spanish  wine,  which  now  proved  a  reviving  cordial 
not  only  to  St.  Foix  but  to  the  whole  party ;  though  to  him  it 
gave  only  a  temporary  relief,  for  it  fed  the  fever  that  burned  in 
his  veins,  and  he  could  neither  disguise  in  his  countenance  the 
anguish  he  suffered,  nor  suppress  the  wish  that  he  was  arrived 
at  the  inn  where  they  had  designed  to  pass  the  preceding  night. 

While  they  thus  reposed  themselves  under  the  shade  of  the 
dark  green  pines,  the  count  desired  Ludovico  to  explain  shortly 
by  what  means  he  had  disappeared  from  the  north  apartment, 
how  he  came  into  the  hands  of  the  banditti,  and  how  he  had 
contributed  so  essentially  to  serve  him  and  his  family,  for  to  him 
he  justly  attributed  their  present  deliverance.  Ludovico  was 
going  to  obey  him,  when  suddenly  they  heard  the  echo  of  a  pistol- 
shot  from  the  way  they  had  passed,  and  they  rose  in  alarm  hastily 
to  pursue  their  route. ^ 

1  They  reach  home  safely.  Ludovico  explains  that  his  mysterious  disappearance 
from  the  north  chamber  was  due  to  his  seizure  by  these  bandits  from  whom  the  party 
has  escaped.  The  bandits  used  to  conceal  their  spoils  in  the  castle  vaults ;  to  avoid 
detection  they  spread  the  report  that  the  castle  was  haunted. 


648  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

CHAPTER  LV 

i^  *  H:  *  *  *  * 

[The  Mystery  of  the  Veiled  Portrait  Solved] 

It  may  be  remembered  that  in  a  chamber  of  Udolpho  hung  a 
black  veil,  whose  singular  situation  had  excited  Emily's  curiosity, 
and  which  afterwards  disclosed  an  object  that  had  overwhelmed 
her  with  horror;  for,  on  Hfting  it,  there  appeared,  instead  of 
the  picture  she  had  expected,  within  a  recess  of  the  wall,  a  human 
figure,  of  ghastly  paleness,  stretched  at  its  length,  and  dressed 
in  the  habiliments  of  the  grave.  What  added  to  the  horror  of 
the  spectacle,  was,  that  the  face  appeared  partly  decayed  and 
disfigured  by  worms,  which  were  visible  on  the  features  and 
hands.  On  such  an  object  it  will  be  readily  beheved  that  no 
person  could  endure  to  look  twice.  Emily,  it  may  be  recollected, 
had,  after  the  first  glance,  let  the  veil  drop,  and  her  terror  had 
prevented  her  from  ever  after  provoking  a  renewal  of  such  suf- 
fering as  she  had  then  experienced.  Had  she  dared  to  look 
again,  her  delusion  and  her  fears  would  have  vanished  together, 
and  she  would  have  perceived  that  the  figure  before  her  was 
not  human,  but  formed  of  wax.  The  history  of  it  is  somewhat 
extraordinary,  though  not  without  example  in  the  records  of 
that  fierce  severity  which  monkish  superstition  has  sometimes 
inflicted  on  mankind.  A  member  of  the  house  of  Udolpho 
having  committed  some  offence  against  the  prerogative  of  the 
church,  had  been  condemned  to  the  penance  of  contemplating, 
during  certain  hours  of  the  day,  a  waxen  image,  made  to  resemble 
a  human  body  in  the  state  to  which  it  is  reduced  after  death. 
This  penance,  serving  as  a  memento  of  the  condition  at  which 
he  must  himself  arrive,  had  been  designed  to  reprove  the  pride 
of  the  Marquis  of  Udolpho,  which  had  formerly  so  much  exas- 
perated that  of  the  Romish  church  ;  and  he  had  not  only  super- 
stitiously  observed  this  penance  himself,  which  he  had  believed 
was  to  obtain  a  pardon  for  all  his  sins,  but  had  made  it  a  con- 
dition in  his  will,  that  his  descendants  should  preserve  the  image 
on  pain  of  forfeiting  to  the  church  a  certain  part  of  his  domain, 
that  they  also  might  profit  by  the  humihating  moral  it  con- 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  649 

veyed.  The  figure,  therefore,  had  been  suffered  to  retain  its 
station  in  the  wall  of  the  chamber ;  but  his  descendants  excused 
themselves  from  observing  the  penance  to  which  he  had  been 
enjoined. 

This  image  was  so  horribly  natural,  that  it  is  not  surprising 
that  Emily  should  have  mistaken  it  for  the  object  it  resembled ; 
nor,  since  she  had  heard  such  an  extraordinary  account  concern- 
ing the  disappearing  of  the  late  lady  of  the  castle,  and  had  such 
experience  of  the  character  of  Montoni,  that  she  should  have 
beheved  this  to  be  the  murdered  body  of  the  Lady  Laurentini, 
and  that  he  had  been  the  contriver  of  her  death. 

The  situation  in  which  she  had  discovered  it  occasioned  her 
at  first  much  surprise  and  perplexity ;  but  the  vigilance  with 
which  the  doors  of  the  chamber  where  it  was  deposited  were 
afterwards  secured,  had  compelled  her  to  believe  that  Montoni, 
not  daring  to  confide  the  secret  of  her  death  to  any  person,  had 
suffered  her  remains  to  decay  in  this  obscure  chamber.  The 
ceremony  of  the  veil,  however,  and  the  circumstance  of  the  doors 
having  been  left  open  even  for  a  moment,  had  occasioned  her 
much  wonder  and  some  doubts ;  but  these  were  not  sufficient 
to  overcome  her  suspicion  of  Montoni ;  and  it  was  the  dread 
of  his  terrible  vengeance  that  had  sealed  her  lips  in  silence 
concerning  what  she  had  seen  in  the  west  chamber. 

Emily,  in  discovering  the  Marchioness  de  Villeroi  to  have  been 
the  sister  of  Mons.  St.  Aubert,  was  variously  affected ;  but, 
amidst  the  sorrow  which  she  suffered  for  her  untimely  death, 
she  was  released  from  an  anxious  and  painful  conjecture,  occa- 
sioned by  the  rash  assertion  of  Signora  Laurentini,^  concerning 
her  birth  and  the  honour  of  her  parents.  Her  faith  in  St.  Au- 
bert's  principles  would  scarcely  allow  her  to  suspect  that  he  had 
acted  dishonourably ;  and  she  felt  such  reluctance  to  believe 
herself  the  daughter  of  any  other  than  her  whom  she  had  always 
considered  and  loved  as  a  mother,  that  she  would  hardly  admit 
such  a  circumstance  to  be  possible :  yet  the  likeness  which  it 
had  frequently  been  affirmed  she  bore  to  the  late  marchioness, 

'  This  unprincipled  woman  whose  history  had  been  curiously  interwoven  with  that  of 
Emily's  family  had,  because  of  the  resemblance  between  Emily  and  the  portrait  of  the 
Marchioness  de  Villeroi,  tried  to  convince  her  that  she  was  the  marchioness'  daughter. 


650  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

the  former  behaviour  of  Dorothee  the  old  housekeeper,  the 
assertion  of  Laurentini,  and  the  mysterious  attachment 
which  St.  Aubert  had  discovered,  awakened  doubts  as  to  his 
connection  with  the  marchioness,  which  her  reason  could  neither 
vanquish  nor  confirm.  From  these,  however,  she  was  now  re- 
Heved,  and  all  the  circumstances  of  her  father's  conduct  were 
fully  explained. 

CHAPTER  LVI 

After  the  late  discoveries,  Emily  was  distinguished  at  the 
chateau  by  the  count  and  his  family  as  a  relative  of  the  house  of 
Villeroi,  and  received,  if  possible,  more  friendly  attention  than 
had  yet  been  shown  her. 

Count  de  Villefort's  surprise  at  the  delay  of  an  answer  to  his 
letter,  which  had  been  directed  to  Valancourt  at  Estuviere,  was 
mingled  with  satisfaction  for  the  prudence  which  had  saved 
Emily  from  a  share  of  the  anxiety  he  now  suffered ;  though, 
when  he  saw  her  still  drooping  under  the  effect  of  his  former 
error,  all  his  resolution  was  necessary  to  restrain  him  from 
relating  the  truth,  that  would  afford  her  a  momentary  relief. 
The  approaching  nuptials  of  the  Lady  Blanche  now  divided  his 
attention  with  this  subject  of  his  anxiety ;  for  the  inhabitants 
of  the  chateau  were  already  busied  in  preparations  for  that 
event,  and  the  arrival  of  Mons.  St.  Foix  was  daily  expected.  In 
the  gaiety  which  surrounded  her,  Emily  vainly  tried  to  partici- 
pate, her  spirits  being  depressed  by  the  late  discoveries,  and  by 
the  anxiety  concerning  the  fate  of  Valancourt,  that  had  been 
occasioned  by  the  description  of  his  manner  when  he  had  deliv- 
ered the  ring.^  She  seemed  to  perceive  in  it  the  gloomy  wildness 
of  despair ;  and  when  she  considered  to  what  that  despair  might 
have  urged  him,  her  heart  sunk  with  terror  and  grief.  The 
state  of  suspense,  as  to  his  safety,  to  which  she  beheved  herself 
condemned  till  she  should  return  to  La  Vallee,  appeared  insup- 
portable ;  and,  in  such  moments,  she  could  not  even  struggle 
to  assume  the  composure  that  had  left  her  mind,  but  would 
often  abruptly  quit  the  company  she  was  with,  and  endeavour 

1  After  a  painful  meeting  with  Valancourt  Emily  had  received  from  him  a  ring  as  a 
sign  of  his  unalterable  affection. 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  651 

to  soothe  her  spirits  in  the  deep  soHtudes  of  the  woods  that 
overbrowed  the  shore.  Here  the  faint  roar  of  foaming  waves 
that  beat  below,  and  the  sullen  murmur  of  the  wind  among  the 
branches  around,  were  circumstances  in  unison  with  the  temper 
of  her  mind ;  and  she  would  sit  on  a  cliff,  or  on  the  broken  steps 
of  her  favourite  watch-tower,  observing  the  changing  colours  of 
the  evening  clouds,  and  the  gloom  of  twilight  draw  over  the  sea, 
till  the  white  tops  of  billows,  riding  towards  the  shore,  could 
scarcely  be  discerned  amidst  the  darkened  waters.  The  lines 
engraved  by  Valancourt  on  this  tower,  she  frequently  repeated 
with  melancholy  enthusiasm,  and  then  would  endeavour  to  check 
the  recollection  and  the  grief  they  occasioned,  and  to  turn  her 
thoughts  to  indifferent  subjects. 

'  One  evening,  having  wandered  with  her  lute  to  this  her 
favourite  spot,  she  entered  the  ruined  tower,  and  ascended  a 
winding  staircase  that  led  to  a  small  chamber  which  was  less 
decayed  than  the  rest  of  the  building,  and  whence  she  had  often 
gazed  with  admiration  on  the  wide  prospect  of  sea  and  land  that 
extended  below.  The  sun  was  now  setting  on  that  tract  of  the 
Pyrenees  which  divides  Languedoc  from  Roussillon ;  and  plac- 
ing herself  opposite  to  a  small  grated  window,  which,  like  the 
wood-tops  beneath,  and  the  waves  lower  still,  gleamed  with  the 
red  glow  of  the  west,  she  touched  the  chords  of  her  lute  in  solemn 
symphony,  and  then  accompanied  it  with  her  voice  in  one  of  the 
simple  and  affecting  airs  to  which,  in  happier  days,  Valancourt 
had  often  listened  in  rapture. 

The  soft  tranquillity  of  the  scene  below,  where  the  evening 
breeze  scarcely  curled  the  water,  or  swelled  the  passing  sail  that 
caught  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun,  and  where,  now  and  then,  a 
dipping  oar  was  all  that  disturbed  the  trembling  radiance,  con- 
spired with  the  tender  melody  of  her  lute  to  lull  her  mind  into  a 
state  of  gentle  sadness  ;  and  she  sung  the  mournful  songs  of  past 
times,  till  the  remembrances  they  awakened  were  too  powerful 
for  her  heart,  her  tears  fell  upon  the  lute,  over  which  she  drooped, 
and  her  voice  trembled,  and  was  unable  to  proceed. 

Though  the  sun  had  now  sunk  behind  the  mountains,  and  even 
his  reflected  light  was  fading  from  their  highest  points,  Emily 
did  not  leave  the  watch-tower,  but  continued  to  indulge  her 


652  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

melancholy  reverie,  till  a  footstep  at  a  little  distance  startled 
her,  and  on  looking  through  the  grate  she  observed  a  person 
walking  below,  whom,  however,  soon  perceiving  to  be  Mons. 
Bonnac,  she  returned  to  the  quiet  thoughtfulness  his  step  had 
interrupted.  After  some  time  she  again  struck  her  lute,  and 
sung  her  favourite  air ;  but  again  a  step  disturbed  her,  and,  as 
she  paused  to  hsten,  she  heard  it  ascending  the  staircase  of  the 
tower.  The  gloom  of  the  hour,  perhaps,  made  her  sensible  to 
some  degree  of  fear,  which  she  might  not  otherwise  have  felt ; 
for  only  a  few  minutes  before  she  had  seen  Mons.  Bonnac  pass. 
The  steps  were  quick  and  bounding,  and  in  the  next  moment 
the  door  of  the  chamber  opened,  and  a  person  entered  whose 
features  were  veiled  in  the  obscurity  of  twilight;  but  his  voice 
could  not  be  concealed,  for  it  was  the  voice  of  Valancourt ! 
At  the  sound,  never  heard  by  Emily  without  emotion,  she  started 
in  terror,  astonishment,  and  doubtful  pleasure ;  and  had  scarcely 
beheld  him  at  her  feet,  when  she  sunk  into  a  seat,  overcome  by 
the  various  emotions  that  contended  at  her  heart,  and  almost 
insensible  to  that  voice  whose  earnest  and  trembling  calls  seemed 
as  if  endeavouring  to  save  her.  Valancourt,  as  he  hung  over 
Emily,  deplored  his  own  rash  impatience  in  having  thus  sur- 
prised her :  for  when  he  arrived  at  the  chateau,  too  anxious  to 
await  the  return  of  the  count,  who,  he  understood,  was  in  the 
grounds,  he  went  himself  to  seek  him,  when,  as  he  passed  the 
tower,  he  was  struck  by  the  sound  of  Emily's  voice,  and  imme- 
diately ascended. 

It  was  a  considerable  time  before  she  revived ;  but  when  her 
recollection  returned,  she  repulsed  his  attentions  with  an  air 
of  reserve,  and  inquired,  with  as  much  displeasure  as  it  was 
possible  she  could  feel  in  these  first  moments  of  his  appearance, 
the  occasion  of  his  visit. 

'  Ah,  Emily  ! '  said  Valancourt,  '  that  air,  those  words  —  alas  ! 
I  have,  then,  little  to  hope  —  when  you  ceased  to  esteem  me,  you 
ceased  also  to  love  me  ! ' 

'Most  true,  sir,'  replied  Emily,  endeavouring  to  command 
her  trembling  voice ;  '  and  if  you  had  valued  my  esteem,  you 
would  not  have  given  me  this  new  occasion  for  uneasiness.' 

Valancourt's  countenance  changed  suddenly  from  the  anxieties 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  653 

of  doubt  to  an  expression  of  surprise  and  dismay ;  he  was  silent 
a  moment,  and  then  said,  'I  had  been  taught  to  hope  for  a  very 
different  reception  !  Is  it  then  true,  Emily,  that  I  have  lost  your 
regard  for  ever  ?  Am  I  to  believe  that  though  your  esteem  for 
me  may  return  —  your  affection  never  can  ?  Can  the  count 
have  meditated  the  cruelty  which  now  tortures  me  with  a  sec- 
ond death  ? ' 

The  voice  in  which  he  spoke  this  alarmed  Emily  as  much  as 
his  words  surprised  her,  and  with  trembling  impatience  she 
begged  that  he  would  explain  them. 

'  Can  any  explanation  be  necessary  ? '  said  Valancourt :  '  do 
you  not  know  how  cruelly  my  conduct  has  been  misrepresented  ? 
that  the  actions  of  which  you  once  believed  me  guilty  (and,  O 
Emily  !  how  could  you  so  degrade  me  in  your  opinion,  even  for 
a  moment  ?)  —  those  actions  I  hold  in  as  much  contempt  and 
abhorrence  as  yourself?  Are  you,  indeed,  ignorant  that  Count 
de  Villefort  has  detected  the  slanders  that  have  robbed  me  of 
all  I  hold  dear  on  earth,  and  has  invited  me  hither  to  justify  to 
you  my  former  conduct  ?  It  is  surely  impossible  you  can  be 
uninformed  of  these  circumstances,  and  I  am  again  torturing 
myself  with  a  false  hope  ! ' 

The  silence  of  Emily  confirmed  this  supposition ;  for  the 
deep  twiUght  would  not  allow  Valancourt  to  distinguish  the 
astonishment  and  doubting  joy  that  fixed  her  features.  Eor  a 
moment  she  continued  unable  to  speak ;  then  a  profound  sigh 
seemed  to  give  some  relief  to  her  spirits,  and  she  said, 

'  Valancourt !  I  was  till  this  moment  ignorant  of  all  the  cir- 
cumstances you  have  mentioned  ;  the  emotion  I  now  suffer  may 
assure  you  of  the  truth  of  this,  and  that  though  I  had  ceased 
to  esteem,  I  had  not  taught  myself  entirely  to  forget  you.' 

'This  moment !'  said  Valancourt  in  a  low  voice,  and  leaning 
for  support  against  the  window  —  '  this  moment  brings  with  it 
a  conviction  that  overpowers  me  !  —  I  am  dear  to  you,  then 
—  still  dear  to  you,  my  Emily  !' 

'  Is  it  necessary  that  I  should  tell  you  so  ? '  she  replied :  '  is 
it  necessary  that  I  should  say  —  these  are  the  first  moments  of 
joy  I  have  known  since  your  departure,  and  that  they  repay  me 
for  all  those  of  pain  I  have  suffered  in  the  interval  ? ' 


654  MRS.   ANN   RADCLIFFE 

Valancourt  sighed  deeply,  and  was  unable  to  reply ;  but  as 
he  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips,  the  tears  that  fell  over  it  spoke 
a  language  which  could  not  be  mistaken,  and  to  which  words 
were  inadequate. 

Emily,  somewhat  tranquillized,  proposed  returning  to  the 
chateau ;  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  recollected  that  the  count 
had  invited  Valancourt  thither  to  explain  his  conduct,  and  that 
no  explanation  had  yet  been  given.  But  while  she  acknowledged 
this,  her  heart  would  not  allow  her  to  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the 
possibiHty  of  his  unworthiness :  his  look,  his  voice,  his  manner, 
all  spoke  the  noble  sincerity  which  had  formerly  distinguished 
him ;  and  she  again  permitted  herself  to  indulge  the  emotions 
of  a  joy  more  surprising  and  powerful  than  she  had  ever  before 
experienced. 

Neither  Emily  nor  Valancourt  were  conscious  how  they 
reached  the  chateau,  whether  they  might  have  been  transferred 
by  the  spell  of  a  fairy,  for  anything  they  could  remember ;  and 
it  was  not  till  they  had  reached  the  great  hall  that  either  of  them 
recollected  there  were  other  persons  in  the  world  besides  them- 
selves. 

The  count  then  came  forth  with  surprise  and  with  the  joyful- 
ness  of  pure  benevolence  to  welcome  Valancourt,  and  to  entreat 
his  forgiveness  of  the  injustice  he  had  done  him  ;  soon  after  which 
Mons.  Bonnac^  joined  this  happy  group,  in  which  he  and  Valan- 
court were  mutually  rejoiced  to  meet. 

When  the  first  congratulations  were  over,  and  the  general 
joy  became  somewhat  more  tranquil,  the  count  withdrew  with 
Valancourt  to  the  library,  where  a  long  conversation  passed 
between  them ;  in  which  the  latter  so  clearly  justified  himself 
of  the  criminal  parts  of  the  conduct  imputed  to  him,  and  so  can- 
didly confessed  and  so  feelingly  lamented  the  follies  which  he 
had  committed,  that  the  count  was  confirmed  in  his  behef  of 
all  he  had  hoped ;  and  while  he  perceived  so  many  noble  virtues 
in  Valancourt,  and  that  experience  had  taught  him  to  detest  the 
folhes  which  before  he  had  only  not  admired,  he  did  not  scruple 
to  beheve  that  he  would  pass  through  Hfe  with  the  dignity  of  a 
wise  and  good  man,  or  to  intrust  to  his  care  the  future  happiness 

1  A  friend  of  Valancourt's  who  has  succeeded  in  clearing  the  latter's  character. 


THE   MYSTERIES   OF   UDOLPHO  655 

of  Emily  St.  Aubert,  for  whom  he  felt  the  solicitude  of  a  parent. 
Of  this  he  soon  informed  her,  in  a  short  conversation,  when 
Valancourt  had  left  him.  While  Emily  listened  to  a  relation  of 
the  services  that  Valancourt  had  rendered  Mons.  Bonnac,  her 
eyes  overflowed  with  tears  of  pleasure ;  and  the  further  conver- 
sation of  Count  de  Villefort  perfectly  dissipated  every  doubt,  as 
to  the  past  and  future  conduct  of  him,  to  whom  she  now  restored, 
without  fear,  the  esteem  and  affection  with  which  she  had  for- 
merly received  him. 


THE  MAN  OF   FEELING 

HENRY   MACKENZIE 

INTRODUCTION 

My  dog  had  made  a  point  on  a  piece  of  fallow-ground,  and  led 
the  curate  and  me  two  or  three  hundred  yards  over  that  and 
some  stubble  adjoining,  in  a  breathless  state  of  expectation,  on 
a  burning  first  of  September. 

It  was  a  false  point,  and  our  labour  was  vain  :  yet,  to  do  Rover 
justice  (for  he'*s  an  excellent  dog,  though  I  have  lost  his  pedi- 
gree), the  fault  was  none  of  his,  the  birds  were  gone :  the  curate 
showed  me  the  spot  where  they  had  lain  basking,  at  the  root  of 
an  old  hedge. 

I  stopped  and  cried  Hem  !  The  curate  is  fatter  than  I ;  he 
wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow. 

There  is  no  state  where  one  is  apter  to  pause  and  look  round 
one,  than  after  such  a  disappointment.  It  is  even  so  in  life. 
When  we  have  been  hurrying  on,  impelled  by  some  warm  wish 
or  other,  looking  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  to  the  left  —  we 
find  of  a  sudden  that  all  our  gay  hopes  are  flown ;  and  the  only 
slender  consolation  that  some  friend  can  give  us,  is  to  point  where 
they  were  once  to  be  found.  And  if  we  are  not  of  that  com- 
bustible race,  who  will  rather  beat  their  heads  in  spite,  than  wipe 
their  brows  with  the  curate,  we  look  round  and  say,  with  the 
nauseated  listlessness  of  the  king  of  Israel,  "All  is  vanity  and 
vexation  of  spirit." 

I  looked  round  with  some  such  grave  apophthegm  in  my  mind 
when  I  discovered,  for  the  first  time,  a  venerable  pile,  to  which 
the  enclosure  belonged.  An  air  of  melancholy  hung  about  it. 
There  was  a  languid  stillness  in  the  day,  and  a  single  crow, 
that  perched  on  an  old  tree  by  the  side  of  the  gate,  seemed  to 
delight  in  the  echo  of  its  own  croaking. 

656 


THE   MAN  OF   FEELING  657 

I  leaned  on  my  gun  and  looked ;  but  I  had  not  breath  enough 
to  ask  the  curate  a  question.  I  observed  carving  on  the  bark 
of  some  of  the  trees :  'twas  indeed  the  only  mark  of  human  art 
about  the  place,  except  that  some  branches  appeared  to  have 
been  lopped,  to  give  a  view  of  the  cascade,  which  was  formed  by 
a  little  rill  at  some  distance. 

Just  at  that  instant  I  saw  pass  between  the  trees  a  young  lady 
with  a  book  in  her  hand.  I  stood  upon  a  stone  to  observe  her ; 
but  the  curate  sat  him  down  on  the  grass,  and  leaning  his  back 
where  I  stood,  told  me,  "That  was  the  daughter  of  a  neighbour- 
ing gentleman  of  the  name  of  Walton,  whom  he  had  seen  walk- 
ing there  more  than  once. 

"Some  time  ago,"  he  said,  "one  Harley  lived  there,  a  whimsi- 
cal sort  of  a  man  I  am  told,  but  I  was  not  then  in  the  cure ;  though, 
if  I  had  a  turn  for  such  things,  I  might  know  a  good  deal  of  his 
history,  for  the  greatest  part  of  it  is  still  in  my  possession." 

"His  history!"  said  I.  "Nay,  you  may  call  it  what  you 
please,"  said  the  curate  ;  "for  indeed  it  is  no  more  a  history  than 
it  is  a  sermon.  The  way  I  came  by  it  was  this :  some  time 
ago,  a  grave,  oddish  kind  of  a  man  boarded  at  a  farmer's  in  this 
parish  :  the  country  people  called  him  The  Ghost ;  and  he  was 
known  by  the  slouch  in  his  gait,  and  the  length  of  his  stride.  I 
was  but  little  acquainted  with  him,  for  he  never  frequented  any 
of  the  clubs  hereabouts.  Yet  for  all  he  used  to  walk  a-nights, 
he  was  as  gentle  as  a  lamb  at  times  ;  for  I  have  seen  him  playing 
at  teetotum  with  the  children,  on  the  great  stone  at  the  door  of 
our  churchyard. 

"Soon  after  I  was  made  curate,  he  left  the  parish,  and  went 
nobody  knows  whither ;  and  in  his  room  was  found  a  bundle 
of  papers,  which  was  brought  to  me  by  his  landlord.  I  began 
to  read  them,  but  I  soon  grew  weary  of  the  task ;  for,  besides 
that  the  hand  is  intolerably  bad,  I  could  never  find  the  author 
in  one  strain  for  two  chapters  together ;  and  I  don't  believe 
there's  a  single  syllogism  from  beginning  to  end." 

"I  should  be  glad  to  see  this  medley,"  said  I.  "You  shall 
see  it  now,"  answered  the  curate,  "for  I  always  take  it  along 
with  me  a-shooting."  "How  came  it  so  torn?"  "'Tis  excel- 
lent wadding,"  said  the  curate. — This  was  a  plea  of  expediency 


658  HENRY  MACKENZIE 

I  was  not  in  a  condition  to  answer;  for  I  had  actually  in  my 
pocket  great  part  of  an  edition  of  one  of  the  German  Illustrissimi, 
for  the  very  same  purpose.  We  exchanged  books ;'  and  by  that 
means  (for  the  curate  is  a  strenuous  logician)  we  probably 
saved  both. 

When  I  returned  to  town,  I  had  leisure  to  peruse  the  acqui- 
sition I  had  made:  I  found  it  a  bundle  of  Uttle  episodes,  put 
together  without  art,  and  of  no  importance  on  the  whole,  with 
something  of  nature,  and  httle  else  in  them.  I  was  a  good  deal 
affected  with  some  very  trifling  passages  in  it ;  and  had  the  name 

of  Marmontel,  or  a  Richardson,  been  on  the  title-page 'tis 

odds  that  I  should  have  wept :    But 

One  is  ashamed  to  be  pleased  with  the  works  of  one  knows 
not  whom. 

CHAPTER  XII 
Of  Bashfulness — a  Character — His  opinion  on  That  Subject 

There  is  some  rust  about  every  man  at  the  beginning  ;  though 
in  some  nations  (among  the  French  for  instance)  the  ideas  of  the 
inhabitants,  from  climate,  or  what  other  cause  you  will,  are  so 
vivacious,  so  eternally  on  the  wing,  that  they  must,  even  in 
small  societies,  have  a  frequent  collision ;  the  rust  therefore  will 
wear  off  sooner :  but  in  Britain  it  often  goes  with  a  man  to  his 
grave,  nay,  he  dares  not  even  pen  a  hie  jacet  to  speak  out  for 
him  after  his  death. 

"Let  them  rub  it  ofif  by  travel,"  said  the  baronet's  brother, 
who  was  a  striking  instance  of  excellent  metal,  shamefully  rusted. 
I  had  drawn  my  chair  near  his.  Let  me  paint  the  honest  old 
man :  'tis  but  one  passing  sentence  to  preserve  his  image  in  my 
mind. 

He  sat  in  his  usual  attitude,  with  his  elbow  rested  on  his  knee, 
and  his  fingers  pressed  to  his  cheek.  His  face  was  shaded  by 
his  hand ;  yet  it  was  a  face  that  might  once  have  been  well 
accounted  handsome;  its  features  were  manly  and  striking,  and 

•  The  reader  will  remember  that  the  Editor  is  accountable  only  for  scattered  chapters  and 
raRnients  of  chapters ;  the  curate  must  answer  for  the  rest.  The  number  at  the  top,  when 
the  chapter  was  entire  he  has  given  as  it  originally  stood,  with  the  title  which  its  author  had 
affixed  to  it.     (Author  s  note.] 


THE   MAN  OF   FEELING  659 

a  certain  dignity  resided  on  his  eye-brows,  which  were  the  largest 
I  remember  to  have  seen.  His  person  was  tall  and  well-made ; 
but  the  indolence  of  his  nature  had  now  inclined  it  to  corpulency. 

His  remarks  were  few,  and  made  only  to  his  famiUar  friends ; 
but  they  were  such  as  the  world  might  have  heard  with  venera- 
tion :  and  his  heart,  uncorrupted  by  its  ways,  was  ever  warm  in 
the  cause  of  virtup  and  his  friends. 

He  is  now  forgotten  and  gone  !  The  last  time  I  was  at  Silton 
Hall,  I  saw  his  chair  stand  in  its  corner  by  the  fire-side ;  there 
was  an  additional  cushion  on  it,  and  it  was  occupied  by  my 
young  lady's  favourite  lap-dog.  I  drew  near  unperceived,  and 
pinched  its  ears  in  the  bitterness  of  my  soul ;  the  creature  howled, 
and  ran  to  its  mistress.  She  did  not  suspect  the  author  of  its 
misfortune,  but  she  bewailed  it  in  the  most  pathetic  terms ; 
and  kissing  its  lips,  laid  it  gently  on  her  lap,  and  covered  it  with 
a  cambric  handkerchief.  I  sat  in  my  old  friend's  seat ;  I  heard 
the  roar  of  mirth  and  gaiety  around  me :  poor  Ben  Silton  !  I 
gave  thee  a  tear  then :  accept  of  one  cordial  drop  that  falls  to 
thy  memory  now. 

"Let  them  rub  it  o&  by  travel."  —  Why,  it  is  true,  said  I, 
that  will  go  far  ;  but  then  it  will  often  happen,  that  in  the  velocity 
of  a  modern  tour,  and  amidst  the  materials  through  which  it  is 
commonly  made,  the  friction  is  so  violent,  that  not  only  the  rust, 
but  the  metal  too,  will  be  lost  in  the  progress. 

"Give  me  leave  to  correct  the  expression  of  your  metaphor," 
said  Mr.  Silton,  "this  covering  of  which  you  complain,  is  not 
always  rust  which  is  produced  by  the  inactivity  of  the  body  on 
which  it  preys ;  such,  perhaps,  is  the  case  with  me,  though 
indeed  I  was  never  cleared  from  my  youth ;  but  (taking  it  in 
its  first  stage)  it  is  rather  an  encrustation,  which  nature  has 
given  for  purposes  of  the  greatest  wisdom." 

"You  are  right,"  I  returned;  "and  sometimes,  like  certain 
precious  fossils,  there  may  be  hid  under  it  gems  of  the  purest 
brilliancy." 

"Nay,  farther,"  continued  Mr.  Silton,  "there  are  two  distinct 
sorts  of  what  we  call  bashfulness ;  this,  the  awkwardness  of  a 
booby,  which  a  few  steps  into  the  world  will  convert  into  the 
pertness  of  a  coxcomb ;    that,  a  consciousness,  which  the  most 


66o  HENRY  MACKENZIE 

delicate  feelings  produce,   and   the  most  extensive  knowledge 
cannot  always  remove." 

From  the  incidents  I  have  already  related,  I  imagine  it  will 
be  concluded  that  Harley  was  of  the  latter  species  of  bashful 
animals ;  at  least,  if  Mr.  Silton's  principle  be  just,  it  may  be 
argued  on  this  side ;  for  the  gradation  of  the  first  mentioned  sort, 
it  is  certain,  he  never  attained.  Some  part  of  his  external 
appearance  was  modelled  from  the  company  of  those  gentle- 
men, whom  the  antiquity  of  a  family,  now  possessed  of  bare 
£250  a  year,  entitled  its  representative  to  approach:  these  in- 
deed were  not  many ;  great  part  of  the  property  in  his  neigh- 
bourhood being  in  the  hands  of  merchants,  who  had  got  rich 
by  their  lawful  calling  abroad,  and  the  sons  of  stewards,  who 
had  got  rich  by  their  lawful  calling  at  home :  persons  so  per- 
fectly versed  in  the  ceremonial  of  thousands,  tens  of  thou- 
sands, and  hundreds  of  thousands  (whose  degrees  of  prece- 
dency are  plainly  demonstrable  from  the  first  page  of  the  Com- 
plete Accomptant,  or  Young  Man's  Best  Pocket  Companion) 
that  a  bow  at  church  from  them  to  such  a  man  as  Harley  would 
have  made  the  parson  look  back  into  his  sermon  for  some  precept 
of  Christian  humility. 

CILA.PTER   XIII 
The  Man  of  Feeling  in  Love 

The  day  before  that  on  which  he  set  out,^  he  went  to  take 
leave  of  Mr.  Walton.  —  We  would  conceal  nothing ;  —  there 
was  another  person  of  the  family  to  whom  also  the  visit  was 
intended,  on  whose  account,  perhaps,  there  were  some  tenderer 
feelings  in  the  bosom  of  Harley  than  his  gratitude  for  the  friendly 
notice  of  that  gentleman  (though  he  was  seldom  deficient  in  that 
virtue)  could  inspire.  Mr.  Walton  had  a  daughter ;  and  such  a 
daughter  !  we  will  attempt  some  description  of  her  by  and  by. 

Harley's  notions  of  the  KaXov,  or  beautiful,  were  not  always 
to  be  defined,  nor  indeed  such  as  the  world  would  always  as- 
sent to,  though  we  could  define  them.     A  blush,  a  phrase  of 

'  We  are  told  in  Chapter  XII  that  Harley,  upon  the  advice  of  friends,  decides  to  go  up  to 
London  to  seek  his  fortune. 


THE   MAN  OF   FEELING  66 1 

affability  to  an  inferior,  a  tear  at  a  moving  tale,  were  to  him, 
like  the  Cestus  of  Cytherea,  unequalled  in  conferring  beauty. 
For  all  these  Miss  Walton  was  remarkable ;  but  as  these,  like 
the  above-mentioned  Cestus,  are  perhaps  still  more  powerful 
when  the  wearer  is  possessed  of  some  degree  of  beauty,  commonly 
so  called,  it  happened,  that,  from  this  cause,  they  had  more  than 
usual  power  in  the  person  of  that  young  lady. 

She  was  now  arrived  at  that  period  of  life  which  takes,  or 
is  supposed  to  take,  from  the  flippancy  of  girlhood  those  spright- 
linesses  with  which  some  good-natured  old  maids  oblige  the  world 
at  three-score.  She  had  been  ushered  into  life  (as  that  word  is 
used  in  the  dialect  of  St.  James's)  at  seventeen,  her  father  being 
then  in  parhament,  and  living  in  London :  at  seventeen,  there- 
fore, she  had  been  a  universal  toast ;  her  health,  now  she  was 
four-and-twenty,  was  only  drank  by  those  who  knew  her  face 
at  least.  Her  complexion  was  mellowed  into  a  paleness,  which 
certainly  took  from  her  beauty ;  but  agreed,  at  least  Harley 
used  to  say  so,  with  the  pensive  softness  of  her  mind.  Her  eyes 
were  of  that  gentle  hazel  colour  which  is  rather  mild  than  pierc- 
ing ;  and,  except  when  they  were  lighted  up  by  good-humour, 
which  was  frequently  the  case,  were  supposed  by  the  fine  gentle- 
men to  want  fire.  Her  air  and  manner  were  elegant  in  the  high- 
est degree,  and  were  as  sure  of  commanding  respect  as  their 
mistress  was  far  from  demanding  it.  Her  voice  was  inexpressibly 
soft ;  it  was,  according  to  that  incomparable  simile  of  Otway's, 

"like  the  shepherd's  pipe  upon  the  mountains, 


When  all  his  little  flock's  at  feed  before  him 

The  effect  it  had  upon  Harley,  himself  used  to  paint  ridicu- 
lously enough ;  and  ascribed  it  to  powers,  which  few  believed, 
and  nobody  cared  for. 

Her  conversation  was  always  cheerful,  but  rarely  witty ;  and 
without  the  smallest  affectation  of  learning,  had  as  much  senti- 
ment in  it  as  would  have  puzzled  a  Turk,  upon  his  principles 
of  female  materialism,  to  account  for.  Her  beneficence  was 
unbounded ;  indeed  the  natural  tenderness  of  her  heart  might 
have  been  argued,  by  the  frigidity  of  a  casuist,  as  detracting 
from  her  virtue  in  this  respect,  for  her  humanity  was  a  feeling, 


662  HENRY  MACKENZIE 

not  a  principle :  but  minds  like  Harley's  are  not  very  apt  to 
make  this  distinction,  and  generally  give  our  virtue  credit  for 
all  that  benevolence  which  is  instinctive  in  our  nature. 

As  her  father  had  for  some  years  retired  to  the  country, 
Harley  had  frequent  opportunities  of  seeing  her.  He  looked 
on  her  for  some  time  merely  with  that  respect  and  admiration 
which  her  appearance  seemed  to  demand,  and  the  opinion  of 
others  conferred  upon  her :  from  this  cause,  perhaps,  and  from 
that  extreme  sensibility  of  which  we  have  taken  frequent  notice, 
Harley  was  remarkably  silent  in  her  presence.  He  heard  her 
sentiments  with  peculiar  attention,  sometimes  with  looks  very 
expressive  of  approbation ;  but  seldom  declared  his  opinion  on 
the  subject,  much  less  made  compliments  to  the  lady  on  the  just- 
ness of  her  remarks. 

From  this  very  reason  it  was  that  Miss  Walton  frequently 
took  more  particular  notice  of  him  than  of  other  visitors,  who, 
by  the  laws  of  precedency,  were  better  entitled  to  it :  it  was  a 
mode  of  politeness  she  had  peculiarly  studied,  to  bring  to  the 
line  of  that  equality,  which  is  ever  necessary  for  the  ease  of  our 
guests,  those  whose  sensibiUty  had  placed  them  below  it. 

Harley  saw  this ;  for  though  he  was  a  child  in  the  drama  of 
the  world,  yet  was  it  not  altogether  owing  to  a  want  of  knowl- 
edge on  his  part ;  on  the  contrary,  the  most  delicate  conscious- 
ness of  propriety  often  kindled  that  blush  which  marred  the 
performance  of  it :  this  raised  his  esteem  something  above  what 
the  most  sanguine  descriptions  of  her  goodness  had  been  able  to 
do ;  for  certain  it  is,  that  notwithstanding  the  laboured  defini- 
tions which  very  wise  men  have  given  us  of  the  inherent  beauty 
of  virtue,  we  are  always  inclined  to  think  her  handsomest  when 
she  condescends  to  smile  upon  ourselves. 

It  would  be  trite  to  observe  the  easy  gradation  from  esteem 
to  love :  in  the  bosom  of  Harley  there  scarce  needed  a  transi- 
tion ;  for  there  were  certain  seasons  when  his  ideas  were  flushed 
to  a  degree  much  above  their  common  complexion.  In  times  not 
credulous  of  inspiration,  we  should  account  for  this  from  some 
natural  cause ;  but  we  do  not  mean  to  account  for  it  at  all ;  it 
were  sufficient  to  describe  its  effects ;  but  they  were  sometimes 
so  ludicrous,  as  might  derogate  from  the  dignity  of  the  sensations 


THE   MAN   OF  FEELING  663 

which  produced  them  to  describe.  They  were  treated  indeed 
as  such  by  most  of  Harley's  sober  friends,  who  often  laughed  very 
heartily  at  the  awkward  blunders  of  the  real  Harley,  when  the 
different  faculties,  which  should  have  prevented  them,  were 
entirely  occupied  by  the  ideal.  In  some  of  these  paroxysms  of 
fancy,  Miss  Walton  did  not  fail  to  be  introduced ;  and  the  pic- 
ture which  had  been  drawn  amidst  the  surrounding  objects  of 
unnoticed  levity  was  now  singled  out  to  be  viewed  through  the 
medium  of  romantic  imagination  :  it  was  improved  of  course, 
and  esteem  was  a  word  inexpressive  of  the  feeHngs  which  it 
excited. 

CHAPTER   XIV 
He  sets  out  on  his  Journey  —  the  Beggar  and  his  Dog 

He  had  taken  leave  of  his  aunt  on  the  eve  of  his  intended 
departure ;  but  the  good  lady's  affection  for  her  nephew  inter- 
rupted her  sleep,  and  early  as  it  was  next  morning  when  Harley 
came  downstairs  to  set  out,  he  found  her  in  the  parlour  with  a 
tear  on  her  cheek,  and  her  caudle-cup  in  her  hand.  She  knew 
enough  of  physic  to  prescribe  against  going  abroad  of  a  morning 
with  an  empty  stomach.  She  gave  her  blessing  with  the  draught ; 
her  instructions  she  had  delivered  the  night  before.  They  con- 
sisted mostly  of  negatives,  for  London,  in  her  idea,  was  so  replete 
with  temptations  that  it  needed  the  whole  armour  of  her  friendly 
cautions  to  repel  their  attacks. 

Peter  stood  at  the  door.  We  have  mentioned  this  faithful 
fellow  formerly :  Harley's  father  had  taken  him  up  an  orphan, 
and  saved  him  from  being  cast  on  the  parish ;  and  he  had  ever 
since  remained  in  the  service  of  him  and  of  his  son.  Harley 
shook  him  by  the  hand  as  he  passed,  smiling,  as  if  he  had  said, 
"I  will  not  weep."  He  sprung  hastily  into  the  chaise  that 
waited  for  him;  Peter  folded  up  the  step.  "My  dear  mas- 
ter," said  he,  shaking  the  solitary  lock  that  hung  on  either  side 
of  his  head,  ''I  have  been  told  as  how  London  is  a  sad  place." 
He  was  choked  with  the  thought,  and  his  benediction  could 
not  be  heard  :  — ■  but  it  shall  be  heard,  honest  Peter  !  where 
these  tears  will  add  to  its  energy. 


664  HENRY  MACKENZIE 

In  a  few  hours  Harley  reached  the  inn  where  he  proposed 
breakfasting,  but  the  fulness  of  his  heart  would  not  suffer  him 
to  eat  a  morsel.  He  walked  out  on  the  road,  and  gaining  a 
Httle  height,  stood  gazing  on  the  quarter  he  had  left.  He 
looked  for  his  wonted  prospect,  his  fields,  his  woods,  and  his 
hills  :  they  were  lost  in  the  distant  clouds  !  He  pencilled  them 
on  the  clouds,  and  bade  them  farewell  with  a  sigh  ! 

He  sat  down  on  a  large  stone  to  take  out  a  Httle  pebble  from 
his  shoe,  when  he  saw,  at  some  distance,  a  beggar  approaching 
him.  He  had  on  a  loose  sort  of  coat,  mended  with  different- 
coloured  rags,  amongst  which  the  blue  and  the  russet  were  the 
predominant.  He  had  a  short  knotty  stick  in  his  hand,  and  on 
the  top  of  it  was  stuck  a  ram's  horn  ;  his  knees  (though  he  was  no 
pilgrim)  had  worn  the  stuff  of  his  breeches ;  he  wore  no  shoes, 
and  his  stockings  had  entirely  lost  that  part  of  them  which  should 
have  covered  his  feet  and  ankles.;  in  his  face,  however,  was  the 
plump  appearance  of  good  humour ;  he  walked  a  good  round 
pace,  and  a  crook-legged  dog  trotted  at  his  heels. 

"Our  delicacies,"  said  Harley  to  himself,  "are  fantastic;  they 
are  not  in  nature  !  that  beggar  walks  over  the  sharpest  of  these 
stones  barefooted,  whilst  I  have  lost  the  most  dehghtful  dream 
in  the  world,  from  the  smallest  of  them  happening  to  get  into  my 
shoe."  The  beggar  had  by. this  time  come  up,  and,  pulKng  off  a 
piece  of  hat,  asked  charity  of  Harley ;  the  dog  began  to  beg 
too  :  — -  it  was  impossible  to  resist  both  ;  and,  in  truth,  the  want 
of  shoes  and  stockings  had  made  both  unnecessary,  for  Harley 
had  destined  sixpence  for  him  before.  The  beggar,  on  receiving 
it,  poured  forth  blessings  without  number;  and,  with  a  sort  of 
smile  on  his  countenance,  said  to  Harley  "that  if  he  wanted  to 
have  his  fortune  told"  ^  Harley  turned  his  eye  briskly  on  the 
beggar :  it  was  an  unpromising  look  for  the  subject  of  a  predic- 
tion, and  silenced  the  prophet  immediately.  "I  would  much 
rather  learn,"  said  Harley,  "what  it  is  in  your  power  to  tell  me  : 
your  trade  must  be  an  entertaining  one  ;  sit  down  on  this  stone, 
and  let  me  know  something  of  your  profession ;  I  have  often 
thought  of  turning  fortune-teller  for  a  week  or  two  myself." 

"Master,"  replied  the  beggar,  "I  like  your  frankness  much; 
God  knows  I  had  the  humour  of  plain-dealing  in  me  from  a 


THE   MAN  OF   FEELING  665 

child,  but  there  is  no  doing  with  it  in  this  world  ;  we  must  live  as 
we  can,  and  lying  is,  as  you  call  it,  my  profession,  but  I  was  in 
some  sort  forced  to  the  trade,  for  I  dealt  once  in  telling  truth. 

"I  was  a  labourer,  sir,  and  gained  as  much  as  to  make  me 
live :  I  never  laid  by  indeed  :  for  I  was  reckoned  a  piece  of  a 
wag,  and  your  wags,  I  take  it,  are  seldom  rich,  Mr.  Harley." 

"So,"  said  Harley,  ''you  seem  to  know  me." 

"Ay,  there  are  few  folks  in  the  country  that  I  don't  know 
something  of  :  how  should  I  tell  fortunes  else  ?" 

"True;  but  to  go  on  with  your  story:  you  were  a  labourer, 
you  say,  and  a  wag ;  your  industry,  I  suppose,  you  left  with 
your  old  trade,  but  your  humour  you  preserve  to  be  of  use  to 
you  in  your  new." 

"What  signifies  sadness,  sir?  a  man  grows  lean  on't :  but  I 
was  brought  to  my  idleness  by  degrees;  first  I  could  not  work, 
and  it  went  against  my  stomach  to  work  ever  after.  I  was  seized 
with  a  jail  fever  at  the  time  of  the  assizes  being  in  the  county 
where  I  lived ;  for  I  was  always  curious  to  get  acquainted  with 
the  felons,  because  they  are  commonly  fellows  of  much  mirth 
and  little  thought,  qualities  I  had  ever  an  esteem  for.  In  the 
height  of  this  fever,  Mr.  Harley,  the  house  where  I  lay  took 
fire,  and  burnt  to  the  ground  ;  I  was  carried  out  in  that  condition, 
and  lay  all  the  rest  of  my  illness  in  a  barn.  I  got  the  better  of 
my  disease,  however,  but  I  was  so  weak  that  I  spit  blood  when- 
ever I  attempted  to  work.  I  had  no  relation  living  that  I  knew 
of,  and  I  never  kept  a  friend  above  a  week,  when  I  was  able  to 
joke ;  I  seldom  remained  above  six  months  in  a  parish,  so  that  I 
might  have  died  before  I  had  found  a  settlement  in  any :  thus 
I  was  forced  to  beg  my  bread,  and  a  sorry  trade  I  found  it,  Mr. 
Harley.  I  told  all  my  misfortunes  truly,  but  they  were  seldom 
beheved ;  and  the  few  who  gave  me  a  halfpenny  as  they  passed 
did  it  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  and  an  injunction  not  to  trouble 
them  with  a  long  story.  In  short,  I  found  that  people  don't  care 
to  give  alms  without  some  security  for  their  money ;  a  wooden 
leg  or  a  withered  arm  is  a  sort  of  draught  upon  heaven  for 
those  who  choose  to  have  their  money  placed  to  account  there ; 
so  I  changed  my  plan,  and,  instead  of  telling  my  own  misfor- 
tunes, began  to  prophesy  happiness  to  others.     This  I  found 


666  HENRY  MACKENZIE 

by  much  the  better  way :  folks  will  always  listen  when  the  tale 
is  their  own,  and  of  many  who  say  they  do  not  beHeve  in 
fortune-telling,  I  have  known  few  on  whom  it  had  not  a  very 
sensible  effect.  I  pick  up  the  names  of  their  acquaintance; 
amours  and  Httle  squabbles  are  easily  gleaned  among  servants 
and  neighbours;  and  indeed  people  themselves  are  the  best 
intelligencers  in  the  world  for  our  purpose:  they  dare  not 
puzzle  us  for  their  own  sakes,  for  every  one  is  anxious  to  hear 
what  they  wish  to  believe,  and  they  who  repeat  it,  to  laugh  at 
it  when  they  have  done,  are  generally  more  serious  than  their 
hearers  are  apt  to  imagine.  With  a  tolerable  good  memory, 
and  some  share  of  cunning,  with  the  help  of  walking  a-nights 
over  heaths  and  church-yards,  with  this,  and  showing  the  tricks 
of  that  there  dog,  whom  I  stole  from  the  serjeant  of  a  marching 
regiment  (and  by  the  way,  he  can  steal  too  upon  occasion),  I 
make  shift  to  pick  up  a  livelihood.  My  trade,  indeed,  is  none  of 
the  honestest ;  yet  people  are  not  much  cheated  neither  who 
give  a  few  halfpence  for  a  prospect  of  happiness,  which  I  have 
heard  some  persons  say  is  all  a  man  can  arrive  at  in  this  world. 
But  I  must  bid  you  good  day,  sir,  for  I  have  three  miles  to  walk 
before  noon,  to  inform  some  boarding-school  young  ladies  whether 
their  husbands  are  to  be  peers  of  the  realm  or  captains  in  the 
army :  a  question  which  I  promised  to  answer  them  by  that 
time." 

Harley  had  drawn  a  shilHng  from  his  pocket ;  but  Virtue  bade 
him  consider  on  whom  he  was  going  to  bestow  it.  Virtue  held 
back  his  arm ;  but  a  milder  form,  a  younger  sister  of  Virtue's, 
not  so  severe  as  Virtue,  nor  so  serious  as  Pity,  smiled  upon  him : 
his  fingers  lost  their  compression,  nor  did  Virtue  offer  to  catch 
the  money  as  it  fell.  It  had  no  sooner  reached  the  ground  than 
the  watchful  cur  (a  trick  he  had  been  taught)  snapped  it  up,  and, 
contrary  to  the  most  approved  method  of  stewardship,  delivered 
it  immediately  into  the  hands  of  his  master. 


THE   MAN  OF  FEELING  667 

CHAPTER    XX 
He  visits  Bedlam  —  the  Distresses  of  a  Daughter 

Of  those  things  called  Sights  in  London,  which  every  stranger 
is  supposed  desirous  to  see,  Bedlam  is  one.  To  that  place, 
therefore,  an  acquaintance  of  Harley's,  after  having  accompanied 
him  to  several  other  shows,  proposed  a  visit.  Harley  objected 
to  it,  "because,"  said  he,  ''I  think  it  an  inhuman  practice  to 
expose  the  greatest  misery  with  which  our  nature  is  afflicted  to 
every  idle  visitant  who  can  afford  a  trifling  perquisite  to  the 
keeper ;  especially  as  it  is  a  distress  which  the  humane  must  see, 
with  the  painful  reflection,  that  it  is  not  in  their  power  to  alle- 
viate it."  He  was  overpowered,  however,  by  the  solicitations  of 
his  friend  and  the  other  persons  of  the  party  (amongst  whom 
were  several  ladies) ;  and  they  went  in  a  body  to  Moorfields. 

Their  conductor  led  them  first  to  the  dismal  mansions  of  those 
who  are  in  the  most  horrid  state  of  incurable  madness.  The 
clanking  of  chains,  the  wildness  of  their  cries,  and  the  impreca- 
tions which  some  of  them  uttered,  formed  a  scene  inexpressibly 
shocking.  Harley  and  his  companions,  especially  the  female 
part  of  them,  begged  their  guide  to  return  ;  he  seemed  surprised 
at  their  uneasiness,  and  was  with  difficulty  prevailed  on  to  leave 
that  part  of  the  house  without  showing  them  some  others  :  who, 
as  he  expressed  it  in  the  phrase  of  those  that  keep  wild  beasts  for 
show,  were  much  better  worth  seeing  than  any  they  had  passed, 
being  ten  times  more  fierce  and  unmanageable. 

He  led  them  next  to  that  quarter  where  those  reside  who,  as 
they  are  not  dangerous  to  themselves  or  others,  enjoy  a  certain 
degree  of  freedom,  according  to  the  state  of  their  distemper. 

Harley  had  fallen  behind  his  companions,  looking  at  a  man  who 
was  making  pendulums  with  bits  of  thread  and  little  balls  of  clay. 
He  had  delineated  a  segment  of  a  circle  on  the  wall  with  chalk, 
and  marked  their  different  vibrations  by  intersecting  it  with 
cross  lines.  A  decent-looking  man  came  up,  and  smiling  at  the 
maniac,  turned  to  Harley,  and  told  him  that  gentleman  had  once 
been  a  very  celebrated  mathematician.  "He  fell  a  sacrifice," 
said  he,  "to  the  theory  of  comets;    for  having,  with    infinite 


668  HENRY   MACKENZIE 

labour,  formed  a  table  on  the  conjectures  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  he 
was  disappointed  in  the  return  of  one  of  those  luminaries,  and 
was  very  soon  after  obliged  to  be  placed  here  by  his  friends.  If 
you  please  to  follow  me,  sir,"  continued  the  stranger,  "I  believe 
I  shall  be  able  to  give  a  more  satisfactory  account  of  the  unfor- 
tunate people  you  see  here  than  the  man  who  attends  your  com- 
panions."    Harley  bowed,  and  accepted  his  offer. 

The  next  person  they  came  up  to  had  scrawled  a  variety  of 
figures  on  a  piece  of  slate.  Harley  had  the  curiosity  to  take 
a  nearer  view  of  them.  They  consisted  of  different  columns, 
on  the  top  of  which  were  marked  South-sea  annuities,  India- 
stock,  and  Three  per  cent,  annuities  consol.  "This,"  said 
Harley 's  instructor,  "was  a  gentleman  well  known  in  Change 
Alley.  He  was  once  worth  fifty  thousand  pounds,  and  had 
actually  agreed  for  the  purchase  of  an  estate  in  the  West,  in 
order  to  realise  his  money ;  but  he  quarrelled  with  the  pro- 
prietor about  the  repairs  of  the  garden  wall,  and  so  returned  to 
town,  to  follow  his  old  trade  of  stock- jobbing  a  Httle  longer ;  when 
an  unlucky  fluctuation  of  stock,  in  which  he  was  engaged  to  an 
immense  extent,  reduced  him  at  once  to  poverty  and  to  madness. 
Poor  wretch  !  he  told  me  t'other  day  that  against  the  next  pay- 
ment of  differences  he  should  be  some  hundreds  above  a  plum." 

"It  is  a  spondee,  and  I  will  maintain  it,"  interrupted  a  voice 
on  his  left  hand.  This  assertion  was  followed  by  a  very  rapid 
recital  of  some  verses  from  Homer.  "That  figure,"  said  the 
gentleman,  "whose  clothes  are  so  bedaubed  with  snuff,  was  a 
schoolmaster  of  some  reputation  :  he  came  hither  to  be  resolved 
of  some  doubts  he  entertained  concerning  the  genuine  pro- 
nunciation of  the  Greek  vowels.  In  his  highest  fits,  he  makes 
frequent  mention  of  one  Mr.  Bentley. 

"But  delusive  ideas,  sir,  are  the  motives  of  the  greatest  part 
of  mankind,  and  a  heated  imagination  the  power  by  which  their 
actions  are  incited :  the  world,  in  the  eye  of  a  philosopher,  may 
be  said  to  be  a  large  madhouse."  "  It  is  true,"  answered  Harley, 
"the  passions  of  men  are  temporary  madnesses;  and  sometimes 
very  fatal  in  their  effects. 

"  From  Macedonia's  madman  to  the  Swede." 


THE   MAN   OF   FEELING  669 

"It  was,  indeed,"  said  the  stranger,  "a  very  mad  thing  in 
Charles  to  think  of  adding  so  vast  a  country  as  Russia  to  his 
dominions  :  that  would  have  been  fatal  indeed ;  the  balance  of 
the  North  would  then  have  been  lost ;    but  the  Sultan  and  I 

would  never  have  allowed  it." "Sir!"  said  Harley,  with 

no  small  surprise  on  his  countenance.  —  "Why,  yes,"  answered 
the  other,  "the  Sultan  and  I;  do  you  know  me?  I  am  the 
Chan  of  Tartary." 

Harley  was  a  good  deal  struck  by  this  discovery ;  he  had  pru- 
dence enough,  however,  to  conceal  his  amazement,  and  bowing 
as  low  to  the  monarch  as  his  dignity  required,  left  him  immedi- 
ately, and  joined  his  companions. 

He  found  them  in  a  quarter  of  the  house  set  apart  for  the 
insane  of  the  other  sex,  several  of  whom  had  gathered  about 
the  female  visitors,  and  were  examining,  with  rather  more  accu- 
racy than  might  have  been  expected,  the  particulars  of  their  dress. 

Separate  from  the  rest  stood  one  whose  appearance  had  some- 
thing of  superior  dignity.  Her  face,  though  pale  and  wasted, 
was  less  squalid  than  those  of  the  others,  and  showed  a  dejec- 
tion of  that  decent  kind,  which  moves  our  pity  unmixed  with 
horror :  upon  her,  therefore,  the  eyes  of  all  were  immediately 
turned.  The  keeper  who  accompanied  them  observed  it : 
"This,"  said  he,  "is  a  young  lady  who  was  born  to  ride  in  her 
coach  and  six.  She  was  beloved,  if  the  story  I  have  heard  is  true, 
by  a  young  gentleman,  her  equal  in  birth,  though  by  no  means 
her  match  in  fortune :  but  love,  they  say,  is  blind,  and  so  she 
fancied  him  as  much  as  he  did  her.  Her  father,  it  seems,  would 
not  hear  of  their  marriage,  and  threatened  to  turn  her  out  of 
doors  if  ever  she  saw  him  again.  Upon  this  the  young  gentle- 
man took  a  voyage  to  the  West  Indies,  in  hopes  of  bettering  his 
fortune,  and  obtaining  his  mistress ;  but  he  was  scarce  landed, 
when  he  was  seized  with  one  of  the  fevers  which  are  common  in 
those  islands,  and  died  in  a  few  days,  lamented  by  every  one  that 
knew  him.  This  news  soon  reached  his  mistress,  who  was  at  the 
same  time  pressed  by  her  father  to  marry  a  rich  miserly  fellow, 
who  was  old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather.  The  death  of  her 
lover  had  no  effect  on  her  inhuman  parent :  he  was  only  the  more 
earnest  for  her  marriage  with  the  man  he  had  provided  for  her ; 


670  HENRY   MACKENZIE 

and  what  between  her  despair  at  the  death  of  the  one,  and  her 
aversion  to  the  other,  the  poor  young  lady  was  reduced  to  the  con- 
dition you  see  her  in.  But  God  would  not  prosper  such  cruelty  ; 
her  father's  affairs  soon  after  went  to  wreck,  and  he  died  almost 
a  beggar." 

Though  this  story  was  told  in  very  plain  language,  it  had 
particularly  attracted  Harley's  notice ;  he  had  given  it  the  trib- 
ute of  some  tears.  The  unfortunate  young  lady  had  till  now 
seemed  entranced  in  thought,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  Httle 
garnet  ring  she  wore  on  her  finger ;  she  turned  them  now  upon 
Harley.  "My  Billy  is  no  more  !"  said  she;  "do  you  weep  for 
my  Billy  ?  Blessings  on  your  tears  !  I  would  weep  too,  but  my 
brain  is  dry;  and  it  burns,  it  burns,  it  burns!" — ^  She  drew 
nearer  to  Harley.  —  "Be  comforted,  young  lady,"  said  he,  "your 
Billy  is  in  heaven."  —  "Is  he,  indeed ?  and  shall  we  meet  again ? 
and  shall  that  frightful  man  (pointing  to  the  keeper)  not  be  there  ? 
—  Alas  !  I  am  grown  naughty  of  late  ;  I  have  almost  forgotten  to 
think  of  heaven :  yet  I  pray  sometimes ;  when  I  can,  I  pray ; 
and  sometimes  I  sing ;  when  I  am  saddest,  I  sing  :  —  You  shall 
hear  me  —  hush  ! 

"Light  be  the  earth  on  Billy's  breast, 
And  green  the  sod  that  wraps  his  grave." 

There  was  a  plaintive  wildness  in  the  air  not  to  be  withstood ; 
and,  except  the  keeper's,  there  was  not  an  unmoistened  eye 
around  her. 

"Do  you  weep  again?"  said  she.  "I  would  not  have  you 
weep :  you  are  like  my  Billy ;  you  are,  believe  me ;  just  so  he 
looked  when  he  gave  me  this  ring ;  poor  Billy  !  'twas  the  last 
time  ever  we  met !  — 

"'Twas  when  the  seas  were  roaring — •  I  love  you  for  resem- 
bling my  Billy ;  but  I  shall  never  love  any  man  like  him."  —  She 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  Harley ;  he  pressed  it  between  both  of 
his,  and  bathed  it  with  his  tears.  —  "Nay,  that  is  Billy's  ring," 
said  she,  "you  cannot  have  it,  indeed  ;  but  there  is  another,  look 
here,  which  I  plated  to-day  of  some  gold-thread  from  this  bit  of 
stuff ;  will  you  keep  it  for  my  sake  ?  I  am  a  strange  girl ;  but 
my  heart  is  harmless :  my  poor  heart ;  it  will  burst  some  day ; 
feel  how  it  beats !  "     She  pressed  his  hand  to  her  bosom,  then 


THE    MAN    OF    FEELING  671 

holding  her  head  in  the  attitude  of  listening  —  "Hark  !  one,  two, 
three  !  be  quiet,  thou  little  trembler ;  my  Billy  is  cold  !  — but  I 
had  forgotten  the  ring."  —  She  put  it  on  his  linger.  —  "Fare- 
well !  I  must  leave  you  now." —  She  would  have  withdrawn  her 
hand  ;   Harley  held  it  to  his  lips.  —  "I  dare  not  stay  longer  ;  my 

head  throbs  sadly:    farewell!" She  walked  with  a  hurried 

step  to  a  little  apartment  at  some  distance.  Harley  stood  fixed 
in  astonishment  and  pity ;  his  friend  gave  money  to  the  keeper. 
—  Harley  looked  on  his  ring.  —  He  put  a  couple  of  guineas  into 
the  man's  hand  :  "Be  kind  to  that  unfortunate "  —  He  burst  into 
tears,  and  left  them. 

CHAPTER   XXXV 

He  misses  an  Old  Acquaintance.  —  An  Adventure  Consequent 

UPON  It 

When  they  had  arrived  within  a  little  way  of  the  village  they 
journeyed  to,  Harley  stopped  short,  and  looked  steadfastly  on 
the  mouldering  walls  of  a  ruined  house  that  stood  on  the  road- 
side. "Oh,  heavens!"  he  cried,  "what  do  I  see:  silent,  un- 
roofed, and  desolate  !  Are  all  the  gay  tenants  gone  ?  do  I  hear 
their  hum  no  more  ?  Edwards,  look  there,  look  there  !  the  scene 
of  my  infant  joys,  my  earliest  friendships  laid  waste  and  ruinous  1 
That  was  the  very  school  where  I  was  boarded  when  you  were 
at  South-hill ;  'tis  but  a  twelve-month  since  I  saw  it  standing, 
and  its  benches  filled  with  Uttle  cherubs  :  that  opposite  side  of  the 
road  was  the  green  on  which  they  sported  ;  see  it  now  ploughed 
up  !  I  would  have  given  fifty  times  its  value  to  have  saved  it 
from  the  sacrilege  of  that  plough." 

"Dear  sir,"  replied  Edwards,  "perhaps  they  have  left  it  from 
choice,  and  may  have  got  another  spot  as  good." 

"They  cannot,"  said  Harley,  "they  cannot;  I  shall  never  see 
the  sward  covered  with  its  daisies,  nor  pressed  by  the  dance  of  the 
dear  innocents :  I  shall  never  see  that  stump  decked  with  the 
garlands  which  their  Httle  hands  had  gathered.  These  two  long 
stones,  which  now  lie  at  the  foot  of  it,  were  once  the  supports  of  a 
hut  I  myself  assisted  to  rear :   I  have  sat  on  the  sods  within  it, 


672  HENRY   MACKENZIE 

when  we  had  spread  our  banquet  of  apples  before  us,  and  been 
more  blessed  —  Oh  !  Edwards,  infinitely  more  blessed,  than  ever 
I  shall  be  again." 

Just  then  a  woman  passed  them  on  the  road,  and  discovered 
some  signs  of  wonder  at  the  attitude  of  Harley,  who  stood,  with 
his  hands  folded  together,  looking  with  a  moistened  eye  on  the 
fallen  pillars  of  the  hut.  He  was  too  much  entranced  in  thought 
to  observe  her  at  all,  but  Edwards,  civilly  accosting  her,  desired 
to  know  if  that  had  not  been  the  school-house,  and  how  it  came 
into  the  condition  in  which  they  now  saw  it. 

"Alack  a  day  !"  said  she,  "it  was  the  school-house  indeed  ;  but 
to  be  sure,  sir,  the  squire  has  pulled  it  down  because  it  stood  in 
the  way  of  his  prospects." 

"What !  how  !  prospects  !  pulled  down  !"  cried  Harley. 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  sir;  and  the  green,  where  the  children  used 
to  play,  he  has  ploughed  up,  because,  he  said,  they  hurt  his 
fence  on  the  other  side  of  it." 

"Curses  on  his  narrow  heart,"  cried  Harley,  "that  could 
violate  a  right  so  sacred  !     Heaven  blast  the  wretch  ! 

"And  from  his  derogate  body  never  spring 
A  babe  to  honour  him  ! " 

But  I  need  not,  Edwards,  I  need  not"  (recovering  himself  a 
little),  "he  is  cursed  enough  already  :  to  him  the  noblest  source 
of  happiness  is  denied,  and  the  cares  of  his  sordid  soul  shall 
gnaw  it,  while  thou  sittest  over  a  brown  crust,  smiHng  on  those 
mangled  limbs  that  have  saved  thy  son  and  his  children  !" 

"If  you  want  anything  with  the  school-mistress,  sir,"  said 
the  woman,  "I  can  show  you  the  way  to  her  house." 

He  followed  her  without  knowing  whither  he  went. 

They  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  snug  habitation,  where  sat  an 
elderly  woman  with  a  boy  and  a  girl  before  her,  each  of  whom 
held  a  supper  of  bread  and  milk  in  their  hands. 

"There,  sir,  is  the  school-mistress." 

"Madam,"  said  Harley,  "was  not  an  old  venerable  man 
school-master  here  some  time  ago  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  he  was,  poor  man;    the  loss  of  his  former   school- 


THE   MAN  OF   FEELING  673 

house,  I  believe,  broke  his  heart,  for  he  died  soon  after  it  was 
taken  down,  and  as  another  has  not  yet  been  found,  I  have  that 
charge  in  the  meantime." 

"And  this  boy  and  girl,  I  presume,  are  your  pupils?" 

"Ay,  sir;  they  are  poor  orphans,  put  under  my  care  by  the 
parish,  and  more  promising  children  I  never  saw." 

"  Orphans  ?  "  said  Harley. 

"Yes,  sir,  of  honest  creditable  parents  as  any  in  the  parish, 
and  it  is  a  shame  for  some  folks  to  forget  their  relations  at  a 
time  when  they  have  most  need  to  remember  them." 

"Madam,"  said  Harley,  "let  us  never  forget  that  we  are  all 
relations." 

He  kissed  the  children. 

"Their  father,  sir,"  continued  she,  "was  a  farmer  here  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  a  sober  industrious  man  he  was  ;  but  nobody 
can  help  misfortunes :  what  with  bad  crops,  and  bad  debts, 
which  are  worse,  his  affairs  went  to  wreck,  and  both  he  and  his 
wife  died  of  broken  hearts.  And  a  sweet  couple  they  were,  sir ; 
there  was  not  a  properer  man  to  look  on  in  the  county  than 
John  Edwards,  and  so  indeed  were  all  the  Edwardses." 

"What  Edwardses?"  cried  the  old  soldier  hastily. 

"The  Edwardses  of  South-hill,  and  a  worthy  family  they 
were." 

"South-hill  !"  said  he,  in  a  languid  voice,  and  fell  back  into 
the  arms  of  the  astonished  Harley.  The  school-mistress  ran 
for  some  water  and  a  smelling-bottle,  with  the  assistance  of 
which  they  soon  recovered  the  unfortunate  Edwards.  He 
stared  wildly  for  some  time,  then  folding  his  orphan  grand- 
children in  his  arms, 

"Oh!  my  children,  my  children,"  he  cried,  "have  I  found 
you  thus  ?  My  poor  Jack,  art  thou  gone  ?  I  thought  thou 
shouldst  have  carried  thy  father's  grey  hairs  to  the  grave  !  and 
these  little  ones"  —  his  tears  choked  his  utterance,  and  he  fell 
again  on  the  necks  of  the  children. 

"My  dear  old  man,"  said  Harley,  "Providence  has  sent  you 
to  relieve  them  ;  it  will  bless  me  if  I  can  be  the  means  of  assisting 
you." 

"Yes,  indeed,  sir,"  answered  the  boy;    "father,  when  he  was 


674  HENRY   MACKENZIE 

a-dying,  bade  God  bless  us,  and  prayed  that  if  grandfather  lived 
he  might  send  him  to  support  us." 

"Where  did  they  lay  my  boy?"  said  Edwards. 

''In  the  Old  Churchyard,"  replied  the  woman,  "hard  by  his 
mother." 

"I  will  show  it  you,"  answered  the  boy,  "for  I  have  wept  over 
it  many  a  time  when  first  I  came  among  strange  folks." 

He  took  the  old  man's  hand,  Harley  laid  hold  of  his  sister's, 
and  they  walked  in  silence  to  the  churchyard. 

There  was  an  old  stone,  with  the  corner  broken  off,  and  some 
letters,  half-covered  with  moss,  to  denote  the  names  of  the  dead  : 
there  was  a  cyphered  R.  E.  plainer  than  the  rest ;  it  was  the 
tomb  they  sought. 

"Here  it  is,  grandfather,"  said  the  boy. 

Edwards  gazed  upon  it  without  uttering  a  word :  the  girl, 
who  had  only  sighed  before,  now  wept  outright;  her  brother 
sobbed,  but  he  stifled  his  sobbing. 

"I  have  told  sister,"  said  he,  "that  she  should  not  take  it  so 
to  heart ;  she  can  knit  already,  and  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  dig, 
we  shall  not  starve,  sister,  indeed  we  shall  not,  nor  shall  grand- 
father neither." 

The  girl  cried  afresh  ;  Harley  kissed  ofif  her  tears  as  they  flowed, 
and  wept  between  every  kiss. 


CHAPTER  LV 
He  Sees  Miss  Walton,  and  is  Happy 

Harley  was  one  of  those  few  friends  whom  the  malevolence 
of  fortune  had  yet  left  me  ;  I  could  not  therefore  but  be  sensibly 
concerned  for  his  present  indisposition ;  there  seldom  passed  a 
day  on  which  I  did  not  make  inquiry  about  him. 

The  physician  who  attended  him  had  informed  me  the  evening 
before,  that  he  thought  him  considerably  better  than  he  had  been 
for  some  time  past.  I  called  next  morning  to  be  confirmed  in  a 
piece  of  intelligence  so  welcome  to  me. 

When  I  entered  his  apartment,  I  found  him  sitting  on  a  couch, 
leaning  on  his  hand,  with  his  eye  turned  upwards  in  the  attitude 


THE   MAN  OF   FEELING  675 

of  thoughtful  inspiration.  His  look  had  always  an  open  benig- 
nity, which  commanded  esteem  ;  there  was  now  something  more 

—  a  gentle  triumph  iin  it. 

He  rose,  and  met  me  with  his  usual  kindness.  When  I  gave 
him  the  good  accounts  I  had  had  from  his  physician,  "I  am 
foolish  enough,"  said  he,  "to  rely  but  little,  in  this  instance,  upon 
physic  :  my  presentiment  may  be  false ;  but  I  think  I  feel  myself 
approaching  to  my  end,  by  steps  so  easy,  that  they  woo  me  to 
approach  it. 

"There  is  a  certain  dignity  in  retiring  from  life  at  a  time,  when 
the  infirmities  of  age  have  not  sapped  our  faculties.  This  world, 
my  dear  Charles,  was  a  scene  in  which  I  never  much  delighted. 
I  was  not  formed  for  the  bustle  of  the  busy,  nor  the  dissipation 
of  the  gay ;  a  thousand  things  occurred,  where  I  blushed  for  the 
impropriety  of  my  conduct  when  I  thought  on  the  world,  though 
my  reason  told  me  I  should  have  blushed  to  have  done  otherwise. 

—  It  was  a  scene  of  dissimulation,  of  restraint,  of  disappointment. 
I  leave  it  to  enter  on  that  state  which  I  have  learned  to  believe  is 
replete  with  the  genuine  happiness  attendant  upon  virtue.  I 
look  back  on  the  tenor  of  my  Hfe,  with  the  consciousness  of  few 
great  offences  to  account  for.  There  are  blemishes,  I  confess, 
which  deform  in  some  degree  the  picture.  But  I  know  the  benig- 
nity of  the  Supreme  Being,  and  rejoice  at  the  thoughts  of  its 
exercise  in  my  favour.  My  mind  expands  at  the  thought  I  shall 
enter  into  the  society  of  the  blessed,  wise  as  angels,  with  the  sim- 
plicity of  children."  He  had  by  this  time  clasped  my  hand,  and 
found  it  wet  by  a  tear  which  had  just  fallen  upon  it.  —  His  eye 
began  to  moisten  too  —  we  sat  for  some  time  silent.  —  At  last, 
with  an  attempt  to  a  look  of  more  composure,  "There  are  some 
remembrances,"  said  Harley,  "which  rise  involuntarily  on  my 
heart,  and  make  me  almost  wish  to  live.  I  have  been  blessed 
with  a  few  friends,  who  redeem  my  opinion  of  mankind.  I 
recollect,  with  the  tenderest  emotion,  the  scenes  of  pleasure  I 
have  passed  among  them  ;  but  we  shall  meet  again,  my  friend, 
never  to  be  separated.  There  are  some  feelings  which  perhaps 
are  too  tender  to  be  suffered  by  the  world.  The  world  is  in 
general  selfish,  interested,  and  unthinking,  and  throws  the  im- 
putation of  romance  or  melancholy  on  every  temper  more  sus- 


676  HENRY   MACKENZIE 

ceptible  than  its  own.  I  cannot  think  but  in  those  regions  which 
I  contemplate,  if  there  is  any  thing  of  mortahty  left  about  us, 
that  these  feelings  will  subsist ;  —  they  are  called,  —  perhaps 
they  are  —  weaknesses  here ;  —  but  there  may  be  some  better 
modifications  of  them  in  heaven,  which  may  deserve  the  name 
of  virtues."  He  sighed  as  he  spoke  these  last  words.  He  had 
scarcely  finished  them,  when  the  door  opened,  and  his  aunt 
appeared,  leading  in  Miss  Walton.  "My  dear,"  says  she,  "here 
is  Miss  Walton,  who  has  been  so  kind  as  to  come  and  inquire  for 
you  herself."  I  could  observe  a  transient  glow  upon  his  face. 
He  rose  from  his  seat  —  "If  to  know  Miss  Walton's  goodness," 
said  he,  "be  a  title  to  deserve  it,  I  have  some  claim."  She 
begged  him  to  resume  his  seat,  and  placed  herself  on  the  sofa 
beside  him.  I  took  my  leave.  Mrs.  Margery  accompanied  me 
to  the  door.  He  was  left  with  Miss  Walton  alone.  She  in- 
quired anxiously  about  his  health.  "I  beheve,"  said  he,  "from 
the  accounts  which  my  physicians  unwillingly  give  me,  that  they 
have  no  great  hopes  of  my  recovery."  —  She  started  as  he  spoke  ; 
but  recollecting  herself  immediately,  endeavoured  to  flatter 
him  into  a  belief  that  his  apprehensions  were  groundless.  "I 
know,"  said  he,  "  that  it  is  usual  with  persons  at  my  time  of  life 
to  have  these  hopes,  which  your  kindness  suggests  ;  but  I  would 
not  wish  to  be  deceived.  To  meet  death  as  becomes  a  man,  is  a 
privilege  bestowed  on  few.  —  I  would  endeavour  to  make  it 
mine  ;  —  nor  do  I  think  that  I  can  ever  be  better  prepared  for  it 
than  now  :  —  It  is  that  chiefly  which  determines  the  fitness  of  its 
approach."  "Those  sen tim en t^,"  answered  Miss  Walton,  "are 
just ;  but  your  good  sense,  Mr.  Harley,  will  own,  that  life  has  its 
proper  value.  —  As  the  province  of  virtue,  life  is  ennobled ;  as 
such,  it  is  to  be  desired.  —  To  virtue  has  the  Supreme  Director 
of  all  things  assigned  rewards  enough  even  here  to  fix  its  attach- 
ment." 

The  subject  began  to  overpower  her.  —  Harley  lifted  his  eyes 
from  the  ground  —  "There  are,"  said  he,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
"there  are  attachments,  Miss  Walton"  —  His  glance  met  hers. 
—  They  both  betrayed  a  confusion,  and  were  both  instantly 
withdrawn.  ^  He  paused  some  moments  —  "I  am  in  such  a 
state  as  calls  for  sincerity,  let  that  also  excuse  it  —  It  is  perhaps 


THE   MAN   OF   FEELING  677 

the  last  time  we  shall  ever  meet.  I  feel  something  particularly 
solemn  in  the  acknowledgment,  yet  my  heart  swells  to  make  it, 
awed  as  it  is  by  a  sense  of  my  presumption,  by  a  sense  of  your 

perfections"  —  He  paused  again "Let  it  not  offend  you,  to 

know  their  power  over  one  so  unworthy  —  It  will,  I  believe,  soon 
cease  to  beat,  even  with  that  feeling  which  it  shall  lose  the  latest. 
—  To  love  Miss  Walton  could  not  be  a  crime  ;  —  if  to  declare  it  is 
one  —  the  expiation  will  be  made." — Her  tears  were  now 
flowing  without  control.  —  "Let  me  intreat  you,"  said  she,  "to 
have  better  hopes  —  Let  not  life  be  so  indifferent  to  you  ;  if  my 
wishes  can  put  any  value  on  it  —  I  will  not  pretend  to  misunder- 
stand you  —  I  know  your  worth  —  I  have  known  it  long  —  I 
have  esteemed  it  —  What  would  you  have  me  say  ?  —  I  have 
loved  it  as  it  deserved."  —  He  seized  her  hand  —  a  languid  colour 
reddened  his  cheek  —  a  smile  brightened  faintly  in  his  eye.  As 
he  gazed  on  her,  it  grew  dim,  it  fixed,  it  closed  —  He  sighed  and 
fell  back  on  his  seat  —  Miss  Walton  screamed  at  the  sight  — ■ 
His  aunt  and  the  servants  rushed  into  the  room  —  They  found 
them  lying  motionless  together.  —  His  physician  happened  to 
call  at  that  instant.  Every  art  was  tried  to  recover  them  — ■ 
With  Miss  Walton  they  succeeded  —  But  Harley  was  gone  for 
ever. 

THE   CONCLUSION 

He  had  hinted  that  he  should  like  to  be  buried  in  a  certain 
spot  near  the  grave  of  his  mother.  This  is  a  weakness ;  but 
it  is  universally  incident  to  humanity :  'tis  at  least  a  memorial 
for  those  who  survive :  for  some  indeed  a  slender  memorial  will 
serve ;  and  the  soft  affections,  when  they  are  busy  that  way, 
will  build  their  structures,  were  it  but  on  the  paring  of  a  nail. 

He  was  buried  in  the  place  he  had  desired.  It  was  shaded 
by  an  old  tree,  the  only  one  in  the  church-yard,  in  which  was  a 
cavity  worn  by  time.  I  have  sat  with  him  in  it,  and  counted 
the  tombs.  The  last  time  we  passed  there,  methought  he 
looked  wistfully  on  the  tree :  there  was  a  branch  of  it  that  bent 
towards  us  waving  in  the  wind  ;  he  waved  his  hand  as  if  he 
mimicked  its  motion.     There  was  something  predictive  in  his 


678  HENRY   MACKENZIE 

look  !  perhaps  it  is  foolish  to  remark  it ;    but  there  are  times 
and  places  when  I  am  a  child  at  those  things. 

I  sometimes  visit  his  grave ;  I  sit  in  the  hollow  of  the  tree. 
It  is  worth  a  thousand  homilies ;  every  noble  feehng  rises  within 
me  !  every  beat  of  my  heart  awakens  a  virtue  !  —  but  it  will 
make  you  hate  the  world No  :  there  is  such  an  air  of  gentle- 
ness around,  that  I  can  hate  nothing ;  but,  as  to  the  world  —  I 
pity  the  men  of  it. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  SANDFORD   AND   MERTON 
THOMAS   DAY 

In  the  western  part  of  England  lived  a  gentleman  of  great 
fortune,  whose  name  was  Merton.  He  had  a  large  estate  in  the 
Island  of  Jamaica,  where  he  had  passed  the  greater  part  of  his 
life,  and  was  master  of  many  servants,  who  cultivated  sugar  and 
other  valuable  things  for  his  advantage.  He  had  only  one  son, 
of  whom  he  was  excessively  fond ;  and  to  educate  this  child 
properly,  was  the  reason  of  his  determining  to  stay  some  years  in 
England.  Tommy  Merton,  who  at  the  time  he  came  from  Ja- 
maica, was  only  six  years  old,  was  naturally  a  very  good-natured 
boy,  but  unfortunately  had  been  spoiled  by  too  much  indulgence. 
While  he  lived  in  Jamaica,  he  had  several  black  servants  to  wait 
upon  him,  who  were  forbidden  upon  any  account  to  contradict 
him.  If  he  walked,  there  always  went  two  negroes  with  him ; 
one  of  whom  carried  a  large  umbrella  to  keep  the  sun  from  him, 
and  the  other  was  to  carry  him  in  his  arms  whenever  he  was  tired. 
Besides  this,  he  was  always  dressed  in  silk  or  laced  clothes,  and 
had  a  fine  gilded  carriage,  which  was  borne  upon  men's  shoulders, 
in  which  he  made  visits  to  his  play-fellows.  His  mother  was  so 
excessively  fond  of  him,  that  she  gave  him  every  thing  he  cried 
for,  and  would  never  let  him  learn  to  read  because  he  com- 
plained that  it  made  his  head  ache. 

The  consequence  of  this  was,  that,  though  Master  Merton  had 
every  thing  he  wanted,  he  became  very  fretful  and  unhapp>'. 
Sometimes  he  ate  sweetmeats  till  he  made  himself  sick,  and  then 
he  suffered  a  great  deal  of  pain,  because  he  would  not  take  bitter 
physic  to  make  him  well.  Sometimes  he  cried  for  things  that 
it  was  impossible  to  give  him,  and  then,  as  he  had  never  been 
used  to  be  contradicted,  it  was  many  hours  before  he  could  be 
pacified.  When  any  company  came  to  dine  at  the  house,  he  had 
always  to  be  helped  first,  and  to  have  the  most  delicate  part  of 

679 


68o  THOMAS   DAY 

the  meat,  otherwise  he  would  make  such  a  noise  as  disturbed 
the  whole  company.  When  his  father  and  mother  were  sitting 
at  the  tea-table  with  their  friends,  instead  of  waiting  till  they  were 
at  leisure  to  attend  him,  he  would  scramble  upon  the  table,  seize 
the  cake  and  bread  and  butter,  and  frequently  overset  the  tea- 
cups. By  these  pranks  he  not  only  made  himself  disagreeable  to 
every  body  else,  but  often  met  with  very  dangerous  accidents. 
Frequently  did  he  cut  himself  with  knives,  at  other  times  throw 
heavy  things  upon  his  head,  and  once  he  narrowly  escaped  being 
scalded  to  death  by  a  kettle  of  boihng  water.  He  was  also  so 
dehcately  brought  up,  that  he  was  perpetually  ill;  the  least 
wind  or  rain  gave  him  cold,  and  the  least  sun  was  sure  to  throw 
him  into  a  fever.  Instead  of  playing  about,  and  jumping,  and 
running  like  other  children,  he  was  taught  to  sit  still  for  fear  of 
spoihng  his  clothes,  and  to  stay  in  the  house  for  fear  of  injuring 
his  complexion.  By  this  kind  of  education,  when  Master 
Merton  came  over  to  England,  he  could  neither  write  nor  read, 
nor  cipher ;  he  could  use  none  of  his  limbs  with  ease,  nor  bear  any 
degree  of  fatigue  ;  but  he  was  very  proud,  fretful  and  impatient. 
Very  near  to  Mr.  Merton's  seat  lived  a  plain  honest  farmer, 
whose  name  was  Sandford.  This  man  had,  like  Mr.  Merton,  an 
only  son,  not  much  older  than  Master  Merton,  whose  name  was 
Harry.  Harry,  as  he  had  always  been  accustomed  to  run  about 
in  the  fields,  to  follow  the  labourers  while  they  were  ploughing, 
and  to  drive  the  sheep  to  their  pasture,  was  active,  strong,  hardy, 
and  fresh-coloured.  He  was  neither  so  fair,  nor  so  delicately 
shaped  as  Master  Merton ;  but  he  had  an  honest,  good-natured 
countenance,  which  made  every  body  love  him  ;  was  never  out  of 
humour,  and  took  the  greatest  pleasure  in  obliging  every  body. 
If  little  Harry  saw  a  poor  wretch  who  wanted  victuals,  while  he 
was  eating  his  dinner,  he  was  sure  to  give  him  half,  and  sometimes 
the  whole  ;  nay,  so  very  good-natured  was  he  to  every  thing,  that 
he  would  never  go  into  the  fields  to  take  the  eggs  of  poor  birds, 
or  their  young  ones  nor  practise  any  other  kind  of  sport  which 
gave  pain  to  poor  animals,  who  are  as  capable  of  feehng  as  we 
ourselves,  though  they  have  no  words  to  express  their  sufferings. 
Once  indeed,  Harry  was  caught  twirling  a  cockchafer  round, 
which  he  had  fastened  by  a  crooked  pin  to  a  long  piece  of  thread  : 


THE  HISTORY  OF   SANDFORD   AND   MERTON     68 1 

but  then  this  was  through  ignorance,  and  want  of  thought ; 
for  as  soon  as  his  father  told  him  that  the  poor  helpless  insect 
felt  as  much,  or  more  than  he  would  do,  were  a  knife  thrust 
through  his  hand,  he  burst  into  tears,  and  took  the  poor  animal 
home,  where  he  fed  him  during  a  fortnight  upon  fresh  leaves ; 
and  when  he  was  perfectly  recovered,  turned  him  out  to  enjoy 
hberty  and  the  fresh  air.  Ever  since  that  time,  Harry  was  so 
careful  and  considerate,  that  he  would  step  out  of  the  way  for  fear 
of  hurting  a  worm,  and  employed  himself  in  doing  kind  ofhces  to. 
all  the  animals  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  used  to  stroke  the 
horses  as  they  were  at  work,  and  fill  his  pockets  with  acorns  for 
the  pigs ;  if  he  walked  in  the  fields,  he  was  sure  to  gather  green 
boughs  for  the  sheep,  who  were  so  fond  of  him,  that  they  followed 
him  wherever  he  went.  In  the  winter  time,  when  the  ground 
was  covered  with  frost  and  snow,  and  the  poor  little  birds  could 
get  at  no  food,  he  would  often  go  supperless  to  bed,  that  he  might 
feed  the  robin-red-breasts :  even  toads  and  frogs,  and  spiders, 
and  such  kind  of  disagreeable  animals,  which  most  people  destroy 
wherever  they  find  them,  were  perfectly  safe  with  Harry  ;  he  used 
to  say,  they  had  a  right  to  live  as  well  as  we,  and  that  it  was  cruel 
and  unjust  to  kill  creatures  only  because  we  did  not  like  them. 
These  sentiments  made  little  Harry  a  great  favorite  with  every 
body ;  particularly  with  the  Clergyman  of  the  parish,  who  be- 
came so  fond  of  him,  that  he  taught  him  to  read  and  write,  and 
had  him  almost  always  with  him.  Indeed,  it  was  not  surprising 
that  Mr.  Barlow  shewed  so  particular  an  affection  for  him ;  for 
besides  learning,  with  the  greatest  readiness,  every  thing  that  was 
taught  him,  httle  Harry  was  the  most  honest,  obliging  creature 
in  the  world.  He  was  never  discontented,  nor  did  he  ever  grum- 
ble, whatever  he  was  desired  to  do.  And  then  you  might  believe 
Harry  in  every  thing  he  said ;  for  though  he  could  have  gained 
a  plum-cake  by  telling  an  untruth,  and  was  sure  that  speaking 
the  truth  would  expose  him  to  a  severe  whipping,  he  never 
hesitated  in  declaring  it.  Nor  was  he  like  many  other  children, 
who  place  their  whole  happiness  in  eating :  for  give  him  but  a 
morsel  of  dry  bread  for  his  dinner,  and  he  would  be  satisfied, 
though  you  placed  sweetmeats  and  fruit,  and  every  other  nicety, 
in  his  way. 


682  THOMAS   DAY 

With  this  little  boy  did  Master  Merton  become  acquainted  in 
the  following  manner.  —  As  he  and  the  maid  were  once  walking 
in  the  fields  on  a  fine  summer's  morning,  diverting  themselves 
with  gathering  different  kinds  of  wild  flowers,  and  running  after 
butterflies,  a  large  snake,  on  a  sudden,  started  up  from  among 
some  long  grass,  and  coiled  itself  around  Httle  Tommy's  leg. 
You  may  imagine  the  fright  they  were  both  in  at  this  accident ; 
the  maid  ran  away  shrieking  for  help,  while  the  child,  who  was  in 
an  agony  of  terror,  did  not  dare  to  stir  from  the  place  where  he 
was  standing.  Harry,  who  happened  to  be  walking  near  the 
place,  came  running  up,  and  asked  what  was  the  matter.  Tommy, 
who  was  sobbing  most  piteously,  could  not  find  words  to  tell  him, 
but  pointed  to  his  leg,  and  made  Harry  sensible  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. Harry,  who,  though  young,  was  a  boy  of  a  most  coura- 
geous spirit,  told  him  not  to  be  frightened  :  and  instantly  seizing 
the  snake  by  the  neck,  with  as  much  dexterity  as  resolution,  tore 
him  from  Tommy's  leg,  and  threw  him  to  a  great  distance  off. 

Just  as  this  happened,  Mrs.  Merton  and  all  the  family,  alarmed 
by  the  servant's  cries,  came  running  breathless  to  the  place,  as 
Tommy  was  recovering  his  spirits,  and  thanking  his  brave  little 
deliverer.  Her  first  emotions  were  to  catch  her  darling  up  in 
her  arms,  and,  after  giving  him  a  thousand  kisses,  to  ask  him 
whether  he  had  received  any  hurt  ?  — ^  'No,'  said  Tommy,  'indeed 
I  have  not,  mamma ;  but  I  believe  that  nasty  ugly  beast  would 
have  bitten  me,  if  that  little  boy  had  not  come  and  pulled  him  off.' 
'And  who  are  you,  my  dear,'  said  she,  'to  whom  we  are  all  so 
^obliged?'  'Harry  Sandford,  madam.'  'Well,  my  child,  you 
are  a  dear,  brave  little  creature,  and  you  shall  go  home  and  dine 
with  us.'  'No,  thank  you,  madam;  my  father  will  want  me.' 
'And  who  is  your  father,  my  sweet  boy?'  'Farmer  Sandford, 
madam,  that  fives  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.'  'Well,  my  dear, 
you  shall  be  my  child  henceforth ;  will  you  ? '  'If  you  please, 
madam,  if  I  may  have  my  own  father  and  mother  too.' 

Mrs.  Merton  instantly  dispatched  a  servant  to  the  Farmer's; 
and,  taking  little  Harry  by  the  hand,  she  led  him  to  the  mansion- 
house,  where  she  found  Mr.  Merton,  whom  she  entertained  with 
a  long  account  of  Tommy's  danger  and  Harry's  bravery. 

Harry  was  now  in  a  new  scene  of  Hfe.     He  was  carried  through 


THE  HISTORY  OF   SANDFORD   AND   MERTON     683 

costly  apartments,  where  every  thing  that  could  please  the  eye, 
or  contribute  to  convenience,  was  assembled.     He  saw  large 
looking  glasses  in  gilded  frames,  carved  tables  and  chairs,  curtains 
made  of  the  finest  silk,  and  the  very  plates  and  knives  and  forks 
were  silver.     At  dinner  he  was  placed  close  to  Mrs.  Merton,  who 
took  care  to  supply  him  with  the  choicest  bits,  and  engaged  him 
to  eat,  with  the  most  endearing  kindness  ;  —  but,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  every  body,  he  neither  appeared  pleased  nor  surprised 
at  any  thing  he  saw.     Mrs.  Merton  could  not  conceal  her  dis- 
appointment ;  for,  as  she  had  always  been  used  to  a  great  degree 
of  finery  herself,  she  had  expected  it  should  make  the  same  im- 
pression upon  every  body  else.     At  last,  seeing  him  eye  a  small 
silver  cup  with  great  attention,  out  of  which  he  had  been  drink- 
ing, she  asked  him  whether  he  should  not  like  to  have  such  a  fine 
thing  to  drink  out  of  ?  and  added,  that,  though  it  was  Tommy's 
cup,  she  was  sure  he  would,  with  great  pleasure,  give  it  to  his 
little  friend.     'Yes,  that  I  will,'  says  Tommy;    'for  you  know, 
mamma,  I  have  a  much  finer  one  than  that,  made  of  gold,  be- 
sides two  large  ones  made  of  silver.'     'Thank  you  with  all  my 
heart,'  said  little  Harry ;   'but  I  will  not  rob  you  of  it,  for  I  have 
a  much  better  one  at  home.'     'How  !'  said  Mrs.  Merton,  'does 
'your  father  eat  and  drink  out  of  silver  ? '     'I  don't  know,  madam, 
what  you  call  this  ;  but  we  drink  at  home  out  of  long  things  made 
of  horn,  just  such  as  the  cows  wear  upon  their  heads.'     'The 
child  is  a  simpleton,  I  think,'  said  Mrs.  Merton;    'and  why  is 
that  better  than  silver  ones  ? '     '  Because,'  said  Harry, '  they  never 
make  us  uneasy.'     'Make  you  uneasy,  my  child!'  said  Mrs. 
Merton,  'what  do  you  mean?'     'Why,  madam,  when  the  man 
threw  that  great  thing  down,  which  looks  just  like  this,  I  saw  that 
you  were  very  sorry  about  it,  and  looked  as  if  you  had  been  just 
ready  to  drop.     Now,  ours  at  home,  are  thrown   about  by  all 
the  family,  and  no  body  minds  it.'     'I  protest,'  said  Mrs.  Merton, 
to  her  husband,  'I  do  not  know  what  to  say  to  this  boy,  he  makes 
such  strange  observations.' 

The  fact  was,  that,  during  dinner,  one  of  the  servants  had 
thrown  down  a  large  piece  of  plate,  which  as  it  was  very  valuable, 
had  made  Mrs.  Merton  not  only  look  very  uneasy,  but  give  the 
man  a  very  severe  talk  for  his  carelessness. 


684  THOMAS   DAY 

After  dinner,  Mrs.  Merton  filled  a  large  glass  of  wine,  and, 
giving  it  to  Harry,  bade  him  drink  it  up  ;  but  he  thanked  her,  and 
said  he  was  not  dry.  '  But  my  dear,'  said  she,  '  this  is  very  sweet 
and  pleasant,  and,  as  you  are  a  good  boy,  you  may  drink  it  up.' 
'Ay!  but,  madam,  Mr.  Barlow  says  that  we  must  only  eat  when 
we  are  hungry,  and  drink  when  we  are  dry,  and  that  we  must  only 
eat  and  drink  such  things  as  are  easily  met  with ;  otherwise  we 
shall  grow  peevish  and  vexed  when  we  can't  get  them.  And 
this  was  the  way  that  the  Apostles  did,  who  were  all  very  good 
men.' 

Mr.  Merton  laughed  at  this.  'And  pray,  said  he,  'little  man, 
do  you  know  who  the  Apostles  were?'  'Oh  !  yes,  to  be  sure  I 
do.'  'And  who  were  they?'  'Why,  sir,  there  was  a  time  when 
people  were  grown  so  very  wicked,  that  they  did  not  care  what 
they  did  and  the  great  folks  were  all  proud,  and  minded  nothing 
but  eating  and  drinking,  and  sleeping,  and  amusing  themselves ; 
and  took  no  care  of  the  poor,  and  would  not  give  a  morsel  of 
bread  to  hinder  a  beggar  from  starving ;  and  the  poor  were  all 
lazy,  and  loved  to  be  idle  better  than  to  work ;  and  little  boys 
were  disobedient  to  their  parents,  and  their  parents  took  no  care 
to  teach  them  any  thing  that  was  good ;  and  all  the  world  wa§ 
very  bad,  very  bad  indeed.  And  then  there  came  a  very  good 
man  indeed,  whose  name  was  Christ ;  and  he  went  about  doing 
good  to  every  body,  and  curing  people  of  all  sorts  of  diseases, 
and  taught  them  what  they  ought  to  do  ;  and  he  chose  out  twelve 
other  very  good  men,  and  called  them  Apostles :  and  these 
Apostles  went  about  the  world  doing  as  he  did,  and  teaching 
people  as  he  taught  them.  And  they  never  minded  what  they 
did  eat  or  drink,  but  lived  upon  dry  bread  and  water ;  and  when 
any  body  offered  them  money,  they  would  not  take  it,  but  told 
them  to  be  good,  and  give  it  to  the  poor  and  sick ;  and  so  they 
made  the  world  a  great  deal  better.  And  therefore  it  is  not  fit 
to  mind  what  we  live  upon,  but  we  should  take  what  we  can  get, 
and  be  contented ;  just  as  the  beasts  and  birds  do,  who  lodge  in 
the  open  air,  and  live  upon  herbs,  and  drink  nothing  but  water ; 
and  yet  they  are  strong,  and  active,  and  healthy.' 

'Upon  my  word,'  said  Mr.  Merton,  '  this  little  man  is  a  great 
philosopher ;  and  we  should  be  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Barlow  if  he 


THE  HISTORY  OF   SAND  FORD   AND   MERTON     685 

would  take  our  Tommy  under  his  care;  for  he  grows  a  great 
boy,  and  it  is  time  that  he  should  know  something.  What  say 
you,  Tommy,  should  you  like  to  be  a  philosopher? '  '  Indeed 
papa,  1  don't  know  what  a  philosopher  is;  but  I  should  like  to 
be  a  king,  because  he's  finer  and  richer  than  any  body  else,  and 
has  nothing  to  do,  and  every  body  waits  upon  him,  and  is  afraid 
of  him.'  'Well  said,  my  dear,'  replied  Mrs.  Merton;  and  rose 
and  kissed  him  ;  '  and  a  king  you  deserve  to  be  with  such  a  spirit ; 
and  here's  a  glass  of  wine  for  you  for  making  such  a  pretty  an- 
swer. And  should  you  not  hke  to  be  a  king  too,  little  Harry  ?  ' 
'  Indeed,  madam,  I  don't  know  what  that  is ;  but  I  hope  I  shall 
soon  be  big  enough  to  go  to  plough,  and  to  get  my  own  living : 
and  then  I  shall  want  nobody  to  wait  on  me.' 

'  What  a  difference  there  is  between  the  children  of  farmers  and 
gentlemen  ! '  whispered  Mrs.  Merton  to  her  husband,  looking 
rather  contemptuously  upon  Harry.  '  I  am  not  sure,'  said  Mr. 
Merton,  '  that  for  this  time  the  advantage  is  on  the  side  of  our 
son:  —  But  should  you  not  like  to  be  rich,  my  dear?  "  said  he 
turning  to  Harry.  'No,  indeed,  sir.'  'No,  simpleton!'  said 
Mrs.  Merton  ;  '  and  why  not  ?  '  '  Because  the  only  rich  man  I 
ever  saw,  is  Squire  Chase,  who  lives  hard  by  ;  and  he  rides  among 
people's  corn,  and  breaks  down  their  hedges,  and  shoots  their 
poultry,  and  kills  their  dogs,  and  lames  their  cattle,  and  abuses  the 
poor ;  and  they  say  he  does  all  this  because  he's  rich,  but  every 
body  hates  him,  though  they  dare  not  tell  him  so  to  his  face :  — 
and  I  would  not  be  hated  for  any  thing  in  the  world.'  '  But 
should  you  not  like  to  have  a  fine  laced  coat,  and  a  coach  to  carry 
you  about,  and  servants  to  wait  upon  you  ? '  '  As  to  that,  madam, 
one  coat  is  as  good  as  another,  if  it  will  but  keep  me  warm ;  and  I 
don't  want  to  ride,  because  I  can  walk  wherever  I  choose ;  and 
as  to  servants,  I  should  have  nothing  for  them  to  do,  if  I  had  a 
hundred  of  them.'  Mrs.  Merton  continued  to  look  at  him  with 
astonishment,  but  did  not  ask  him  any  more  questioife. 

In  the  evening,  little  Harry  was  sent  home  to  his  father,  who 
asked  him  what  he  had  seen  at  the  great  house,  and  how  he  liked 
being  there  ?  'Why,'  replied  Harry,  'they  were  all  very  kind  to 
me,  for  which  I'm  much  obliged  to  them  :  but  I  had  rather  have 
been  at  home,  for  I  never  was  so  troubled  in  all  my  life  to  get  a 


686  THOMAS  DAY 

dinner.  There  was  one  man  to  take  away  my  plate  and  another 
to  give  me  drink,  and  another  to  stand  behind  my  chair,  just  if 
I  had  been  lame  or  blind,  and  could  not  have  waited  upon  myself, 
and  then  there  was  so  much  to  do  with  putting  this  thing  on,  and 
taking  another  off,  I  thought  it  would  never  have  been  over  :  and, 
after  dinner,  I  was  obliged  to  sit  two  whole  hours  without  ever 
stirring,  while  the  lady  was  talking  to  me,  not  as  Mr.  Barlow 
does,  but  wanting  me  to  love  fine  clothes,  and  to  be  a  king,  and 
to  be  rich,  that  I  may  be  hated  like  Squire  Chase.' 

But  at  the  mansion  house,  much  of  the  conversation,  in  the 
mean  time,  was  employed  in  examining  the  merits  of  little  Harry. 
Mrs.  Merton  acknowledged  his  bravery  and  openness  of  temper ; 
she  was  also  struck  with  the  general  good-nature  and  benevolence 
of  his  character,  but  she  contended  that  he  had  a  certain  grossness 
and  indelicacy  in  his  ideas,  which  distinguish  the  children  of  the 
lower  and  middling  classes  of  people  from  those  of  persons  of 
fashion.  Mr.  Merton  on  the  contrary,  maintained,  that  he  had 
never  before  seen  a  child  whose  sentiments  and  disposition  would 
do  so  much  honour  even  to  the  most  elevated  situations. 
Nothing  he  affirmed,  was  more  easily  acquired  than  those  exter- 
nal manners,  and  that  superficial  address,  upon  which  too  many 
of  the  higher  classes  pride  themselves  as  their  greatest,  or  even 
as  their  only  accomplishment :  '  nay  so  easily  are  they  picked  up ' 
said  he  'that  we  frequently  see  them  descend  with  the  cast 
clothes  to  maids  and  valets ;  between  whom  and  their  masters 
and  mistresses  there  is  httle  other  difference  than  what  results 
from  the  former  wearing  soiled  clothes  and  healthier  counte- 
nances. Indeed,  the  real  seat  of  all  superiority,  even  of  manners, 
must  be  placed  in  the  mind  :  dignified  sentiments,  superior  cour- 
age, accompanied  with  genuine  and  universal  courtesy,  are  always 
necessary  to  constitute  the  real  gentleman ;  and  where  these  are 
wanting,  it  is  the  greatest  absurdity  to  think  they  can  be  sup- 
plied by  affected  tones  of  voice,  particular  grimaces,  or  extrava- 
gant and  unnatural  modes  of  dress ;  which  far  from  becoming 
the  real  test  of  gentility,  have  in  general  no  other  origin  than  the 
caprice  of  barbers,  tailors,  actors,  opera  dancers,  milliners,  fiddlers, 
and  French  servants  of  both  sexes.  'I  cannot  help,  therefore, 
asserting,'  said  he,  very  seriously,  'that  this  little  peasant  has 


THE  HISTORY  OF  SANDFORD   AND   MERTON     687 

within  his  mind  the  seeds  of  true  gentility  and  dignity  of  char- 
acter ;  and  though  I  shall  also  wish  that  our  son  may  possess  all 
the  common  accomplishments  of  his  rank,  nothing  would  give 
me  more  pleasure  than  a  certainty  that  he  would  never  in  any 
respect  fall  below  the  son  of  farmer  Sandford.' 

Whether  Mrs.  Merton  fully  acceded  to  these  observations  of 
her  husband,  I  cannot  decide ;  but,  without  waiting  to  hear  her 
particular  sentiments,  he  thus  went  on :  —  '  Should  I  appear 
more  warm  than  usual  upon  this  subject,  you  must  pardon  me, 
my  dear,  and  attribute  it  to  the  interest  I  feel  in  the  welfare  of 
our  little  Tommy.  I  am  too  sensible  that  our  mutual  fondness 
has  hitherto  treated  him  with  rather  too  much  indulgence.  While 
we  have  been  over-solicitous  to  remove  from  him  every  painful 
and  disagreeable  impression,  we  have  made  him  too  delicate  and 
fretful :  our  desire  of  constantly  consulting  his  inclinations 
has  made  us  gratify  even  his  caprices  and  humours ;  and,  while 
we  have  been  too  studious  to  preserve  him  from  restraint  and 
opposition,  we  have  in  reality  been  ourselves  the  cause  that  he 
has  not  acquired  even  the  common  attainments  of  his  age  and 
situation.  All  this  I  have  long  observed  in  silence ;  but  have 
hitherto  concealed,  both  from  my  fondness  for  our  child,  and 
my  fear  of  offending  you  :  but  at  length  a  consideration  of  his 
real  interests  has  prevailed  over  every  other  motive,  and  has  com- 
pelled me  to  embrace  a  resolution,  which  I  hope  will  not  be  dis- 
agreeable to  you,  —  that  of  sending  him  directly  to  Mr.  Barlow, 
provided  he  would  take  the  care  of  him  :  and  I  think  this  acci- 
dental acquaintance  with  young  Sandford  may  prove  the  luckiest 
thing  in  the  world,  as  he  is  so  nearly  the  age  and  size  of  our 
Tommy.  I  will  therefore  propose  to  the  Farmer,  that  I  will  for 
some  years  pay  for  the  board  and  education  of  his  little  boy,  that 
he  may  be  a  constant  companion  to  our  son.' 

As  Mr.  Merton  said  this  with  a  certain  degree  of  firmness  and 
the  proposal  was  in  itself  so  reasonable  and  necessary,  Mrs. 
Merton  did  not  make  any  objection  to  it,  but  consented,  although 
very  reluctantly,  to  part  with  her  son.  Mr.  Barlow  was  ac- 
cordingly invited  to  dinner  the  next  Sunday,  and  Mr.  Merton 
took  an  opportunity  of  introducing  the  subject,  and  making  the 
proposal  to  him ;  assuring  him,  at  the  same  time,  that,  though 


688  THOMAS   DAY 

there  was  no  return  within  the  bounds  of  his  fortune  which  he 
would  not  wiUingly  make,  yet  the  education  and  improvement 
of  his  son  were  objects  of  so  much  importance  to  him,  that  he 
should  always  consider  himself  as  the  obhged  party. 

To  this,  Mr.  Barlow,  after  thanking  Mr.  Merton  for  the  con- 
fidence and  hberaUty  with  which  he  treated  him,  answered  in 
the  following  manner;  —  'I  should  be  Httle  worthy  of. the  dis- 
tinguished regard  with  which  you  treat  me,  did  I  not  with  the 
greatest  sincerity  assure  you,  that  I  feel  myself  totally  unquaKfied 
for  such  a  task.  I  am,  Sir,  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  and  I  would 
not  exchange  that  character,  and  the  severe  duties  it  enjoins, 
for  any  other  situation  in  Hfe.  But  you  must  be  sensible,  that 
the  retired  manner  of  Hfe  which  I  have  led  for  these  twenty  years, 
in  consequence  of  my  profession,  at  a  distance  from  the  gaieties 
of  the  capital,  and  the  refinements  of  pohte  Hfe,  is  Httle  adapted 
to  form  such  a  tutor  as  the  manners  and  opinions  of  the  world 
require  for  your  son.  Gentlemen  in  your  situation  of  Hfe  are 
accustomed  to  divide  the  world  into  two  general  classes ;  those 
that  are  persons  of  fashion,  and  those  that  are  not.  The  first 
class  contains  every  thing  that  is  valuable  in  Hfe ;  and  therefore 
their  manners,  their  prejudices,  their  very  vices,  must  be  incul- 
cated upon  the  minds  of  children,  from  the  earliest  period  of 
infancy  ;  the  second  comprehends  the  great  body  of  mankind  who, 
under  the  general  name  of  the  vulgar,  are  represented  as  being 
only  objects  of  contempt  and  disgust,  and  scarcely  worthy  to  be 
put  on  a  footing  with  the  very  beasts  that  contribute  to  the 
pleasures  and  conveniences  of  their  superiors.' 

Mr.  Merton  could  not  help  interrupting  Mr.  Barlow  here,  to 
assure  him,  that,  though  there  was  too  much  truth  in  the  obser- 
vation, yet  he  must  not  think  that  either  he,  or  Mrs.  Merton, 
carried  things  to  that  extravagant  length ;  and  that,  although 
they  wished  their  son  to  have  the  manners  of  a  man  of  fashion, 
they  thought  his  morals  and  reHgion  of  infinitely  more  conse- 
quence. 

'If  you  think  so.  Sir,'  said  Mr.  Barlow,  'it  is  more  than  a  noble 
lord  did,  whose  written  opinions  are  now  considered  as  the  oracles 
of  poHte  Hfe,  and  more  than,  I  believe,  most  of  his  admirers  do 
at  this  time.     But  if  you  allow  what  I  have  just  mentioned  to  be 


THE  HISTORY  OF   SANDFORD   AND   MERTON     689 

the  common  distinctions  of  genteel  people,  you  must  at  one  glance 
perceive  how  little  I  must  be  qualified  to  educate  a  young  gentle- 
man intended  to  move  in  that  sphere ;  I,  whose  temper^  reason, 
and  religion,  equally  combine  to  make  me  reject  the  principles 
upon  which  those  distinctions  are  founded.  The  Christian 
religion,  though  not  exclusively,  is,  emphatically  speaking,  the 
rehgion  of  the  poor.  Its  first  ministers  were  taken  from  the  lower 
orders  of  mankind,  and  to  the  lower  orders  of  mankind  was  it 
first  proposed ;  and  in  this,  instead  of  feeling  myself  mortified 
or  ashamed,  I  am  the  more  inclined  to  adore  the  wisdom  and 
benevolence  of  that  Power  by  whose  command  it  was  first 
promulgated.' 


'Nothing,'  said  Mr.  Merton,  'can  be  more  rational  or  moder- 
ate than  these  sentiments ;  why  then  do  you  persist  in  pleading 
your  incapacity  for  an  employment  which  you  can  so  well  dis- 
charge ? ' 

'Because,'  said  Mr.  Barlow,  'he  that  undertakes  the  education 
of  a  child,  undertakes  the  most  important  duty  in  society,  and 
is  severally  answerable  for  every  voluntary  omission.  The 
same  mode  of  reasoning,  which  I  have  just  been  using,  is  not 
apphcable  here.  It  is  out  of  the  power  of  any  individual,  how- 
ever strenuous  may  be  his  endeavours,  to  prevent  the  mass  of 
mankind  from  acquiring  prejudices  and  corruptions :  and,  when 
he  finds  them  in  that  state,  he  certainly  may  use  all  the  wisdom 
he  possesses  for  their  reformation.  But  this  rule  will  never 
justify  him,  for  an  instant,  in  giving  false  impressions  where  he 
is  at  liberty  to  instil  truth,  and  in  losing  the  only  opportunity 
which  he  perhaps  may  ever  possess,  of  teaching  pure  morality 
and  religion.  —  How  will  such  a  man,  if  he  has  the  least  feehng, 
bear  to  see  his  pupil  become  a  slave,  perhaps  to  the  grossest 
vices ;  and  to  reflect,  with  a  great  degree  of  probability,  that 
this  catastrophe  has  been  owing  to  his  own  inactivity  and  im- 
proper indulgence  ?  May  not  all  human  characters  frequently 
be  traced  back  to  impressions  made  at  so  early  a  period,  that  none 
but  discerning  eyes  would  ever  suspect  their  existence  ?  Yet 
nothing  is  more  certain ;   what  we  are  at  twenty  depends  upon 


690  THOMAS   DAY 

what  we  were  at  fifteen ;  what  we  are  at  fifteen  upon  what  we 
were  at  ten :  where  shall  we  then  place  the  beginning  of  the 
series  ?  —  Besides,  sir,  the  very  prejudices  and  manners  of  society, 
which  seem  to  be  an  excuse  for  the  present  negligence  in  the  early 
education  of  children,  act  upon  my  mind  with  a  contrary  effect. 
Need  we  fear  that,  after  every  possible  precaution  has  been  taken, 
our  pupil  should  not  give  a  sufficient  loose  to  his  passions,  or 
should  be  in  danger  of  being  too  severely  virtuous  ?  How  glori- 
ous would  be  such  a  distinction,  how  much  to  be  wished  for,  and 
yet  now  little  to  be  expected  by  any  one  who  is  moderately  ac- 
quainted with  the  world  !  The  instant  he  makes  his  entrance 
there,  he  will  find  a  universal  relaxation  and  indifference  to  every 
thing  that  is  serious ;  every  thing  will  conspire  to  represent 
pleasure  and  sensuahty  as  the  only  business  of  human  beings,  and 
to  throw  a  ridicule  upon  every  pretence  to  principle  or  restraint. 
This  will  be  the  doctrine  that  he  will  learn  at  theatres,  from  his 
companions,  from  the  polite  circles  into  which  he  is  introduced. 
The  ladies  too  will  have  their  share  in  the  improvement  of  his 
character  :  they  will  criticize  the  colour  of  his  clothes,  his  method 
of  making  a  bow,  and  of  entering  a  room.  They  will  teach  him 
that  the  great  object  of  human  life  is  to  please  the  fair  ;  and  that 
the  only  method  of  doing  it,  is  to  acquire  the  graces.  Need  we 
fear  that,  thus  beset  on  every  side,  he  should  not  attach  a  suffi- 
cient importance  to  trifles,  or  grow  fashionably  languid  in  the 
discharge  of  all  his  duties  ?  —  Alas  !  sir,  it  seems  to  me  that  this 
will  unavoidably  happen  in  spite  of  all  our  endeavours.  Let 
us  then  not  lose  the  important  moment  of  human  life,  when  it 
is  possible  to  flatter  ourselves  with  some  hopes  of  success  in  giving 
good  impressions  :  they  may  succeed  :  they  may  either  preserve 
a  young  man  from  gross  immorality,  or  have  a  tendency  to  reform 
him,  when  the  first  ardour  of  youth  is  passed.  If  we  neglect  this 
awful  moment,  which  can  never  return,  with  the  view,  which,  I 
must  confess,  I  have  of  modern  manners,  it  appears  to  me,  like 
launching  a  vessel  in  the  midst  of  a  storm,  without  a  compass  and 
without  a  pilot.' 

'Sir,'  said  Mr.  Merton,  'I  will  make  no  other  answer  to  what 
you  have  now  been  saying,  than  to  tell  you,  it  adds,  if  possible, 
to  my  esteem  of  your  character ;   and  that  I  will  deliver  my  son 


THE   HISTORY  OF   SAXDFORD   AXD   MERTOX     691 

into  your  hands,  upon  your  own  conditions.  And  as  to  the 
terms  — ' 

'Pardon  me,'  replied  Mr.  Barlow,  'if  I  interrupt  you  here,  and 
give  you  another  specimen  of  the  singularity  of  my  opinions.  I 
am  contented  to  take  your  son  for  some  months  under  my  care, 
and  to  endeavour  by  every  means  within  my  power  to  improve 
him.  But  there  is  one  circumstance  which  is  indispensable, 
that  you  permit  me  to  have  the  pleasure  of  serving  you  as  a 
friend.  If  you  approve  of  my  ideas  and  conduct,  I  will  keep  him 
as  long  as  you  desire.  In  the  mean  time,  as  there  are,  I  fear, 
some  Uttle  circumstances  which  have  grown  up,  by  too  much 
tenderness  and  indulgence,  to  be  altered  in  his  character,  I  think 
that  I  shall  possess  more  of  the  necessary  influence  and  authority, 
if  I,  for  the  present  appear  to  him  and  your  whole  family  rather 
in  the  light  of  a  friend,  than  that  of  a  schoolmaster.' 

However  disagreeable  this  proposal  was  to  the  generosity  of 
Mr.  Merton,  he  was  obhged  to  consent  to  it;  and  Httle 
Tommy  was  accordingly  sent  the  next  day  to  the  vicarage, 
which  was  at  the  distance  of  about  two  miles  from  his  father's 
house. 

The  day  after  Tommy  came  to  Mr.  Barlow's,  as  soon  as  break- 
fast was  over,  he  took  him  and  Harry  into  the  garden  :  when  he 
was  there,  he  took  a  spade  into  his  own  hand,  and  giving  Harry 
a  hoe,  they  both  began  to  work  with  great  eagerness.  'Every 
body  that  eats,'  says  Mr.  Barlow,  'ought  to  assist  in  procuring 
food ;  and  therefore  Httle  Harry  and  I  begin  our  daily  work. 
This  is  my  bed,  and  that  other  is  his  ;  we  work  upon  it  every  day, 
and  he  that  raises  the  most  out  of  it  will  deserve  to  fare  the  best. 
Now,  Tommy,  if  you  choose  to  join  us,  I  will  mark  you  out  a 
piece  of  ground,  which  you  shall  have  to  yourself,  and  all  the 
produce  shall  be  your  own.'  —  'No,  indeed,'  said  Tommy,  very 
sulkily,  'I  am  a  gentleman,  and  don't  choose  to  slave  like  a 
ploughboy.'  'Just  as  you  please,  Mr.  Gentleman,'  said  Mr. 
Barlow ;  'but  Harry  and  I,  who  are  not  above  being  useful,  will 
mind  our  work.' 

In  about  two  hours,  Mr.  Barlow  said  it  was  time  to  leave  off ; 
and,  taking  Harry  by  the  hand,  he  led  him  into  a  very  pleasant 
summer-house,  where  they  sat  down ;    and  Mr.  Barlow,  taking 


692  THOMAS   DAY 

out  a  plate  of  very  fine  ripe  cherries,  divided  them  between  Harry 
and  himself. 

Tommy,  who  had  followed,  and  expected  his  share  when  he 
saw  them  both  eating  without  taking  any  notice  of  him,  could 
no  longer  restrain  his  passion,  but  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of 
sobbing  and  crying.  —  'What  is  the  matter?'  said  Mr.  Barlow 
very  coolly  to  him.  Tommy  looked  upon  him  very  sulkily,  but 
returned  no  answer.  '  Oh  !  Sir,  if  you  don't  choose  to  give  me 
an  answer,  you  may  be  silent ;  nobody  is  obliged  to  speak  here.' 
Tommy  became  still  more  disconcerted  at  this,  and,  being  unable 
to  conceal  his  anger,  ran  out  of  the  summer-house,  and  wandered 
very  disconsolately  about  the  garden,  equally  surprised  and 
vexed  to  find  that  he  was  now  in  a  place  where  nobody  felt 
any  concern  whether  he  was  pleased  or  the  contrary. 

When  all  the  cherries  were  eat,  little  Harry  said  —  'You 
promised  to  be  so  good  as  to  hear  me  read  when  we  had  done 
working  in  the  garden ;  and  if  it  is  agreeable  to  you,  I  will  now 
read  the  story  of  the  FHes  and  the  Ants.'  'With  all  my  heart,' 
said  Mr.  Barlow:  'remember  to  read  it  slowly  and  distinctly, 
without  hesitating  or  pronouncing  the  words  wrong  ;  and  be  sure 
to  read  it  in  such  a  manner  as  to  show  that  you  understand  it.' 

Harry  then  took  up  the  book,  and  read  as  follows :  — 


As  they  were  returning  home,  Harry  saw  a  very  large  bird 
called  a  Kite,  upon  the  ground,  who  seemed  to  have  something 
in  his  claws,  which  he  was  tearing  to  pieces.  Harry,  who  knew 
him  to  be  one  of  those  ravenous  creatures  which  prey  upon 
others,  ran  up  to  him,  shouting  as  loud  as  he  could  ;  and  the  bird, 
being  frightened,  flew  away,  and  left  a  chicken  behind  him,  very 
much  hurt  indeed,  but  still  alive.  'Look,  sir,'  said  Harry,  'if 
that  cruel  creature  has  not  almost  killed  this  poor  chicken  !  see 
how  he  bleeds,  and  hangs  his  wings  !  I  will  put  him  into  my 
bosom  to  recover  him,  and  carry  him  home;  and  he  shall  have 
part  of  my  dinner  every  day  till  he  is  well  and  able  to  shift  for 
himself.' 

As  soon  as  they  came  home,  the  first  care  of  Httle  Harry  was  to 
put  his  wounded  chicken  into  a  basket  with  some  fresh  straw, 


THE   HISTORY  OF   SANDFORD   AND    MERTON     693 

some  water,  and  some  bread.  After  that,  Mr.  Barlow  and  he 
went  to  dinner. 

In  the  meantime.  Tommy  who  had  been  skulking  about  all 
day,  very  much  mortified  and  uneasy,  came  in,  and,  being  very 
hungry,  was  going  to  sit  down  to  the  table  with  the  rest ;  but 
Mr.  Barlow  stopped  him,  and  said,  'No,  sir,  as  you  are  too  much 
of  a  gentleman  to  work,  we,  who  are  not  so,  do  not  choose  to 
work  for  the  idle.'  Upon  this  Tommy  retired  into  a  corner, 
crying  as  if  his  heart  would  break,  but  more  from  grief  than 
passion,  as  he  began  to  perceive  that  nobody  minded  his  ill 
temper. 

But  little  Harry,  who  could  not  bear  to  see  his  friend  so  un- 
happy, looked  up  half  crying  into  Mr.  Barlow's  face,  and  said, 
'Pray,  sir,  may  I  do  as  I  please  with  my  share  of  the  dinner?' 
'Yes,  to  be  sure,  child.'  'Why,  then,'  said  he,  getting  up,  'I  will 
give  it  all  to  poor  Tommy,  who  wants  it  more  than  I  do.'  Saying 
this,  he  gave  it  to  him  as  he  sat  in  the  corner ;  and  Tommy  took 
it,  and  thanked  him,  without  ever  turning  his  eyes  from  off  the 
ground.  'I  see,'  said  Mr.  Barlow,  'that  though  gentlemen  are 
above  being  any  use  themselves,  they  are  not  above  taking  the 
bread  that  other  people  have  been  working  hard  for.'  At  this. 
Tommy  cried  still  more  bitterly  than  before. 

The  next  day,  Mr.  Barlow  and  Harry  went  to  work  as  before ; 
but  they  had  scarcely  begun  before  Tommy  came  to  them,  and 
desired  that  he  might  have  a  hoe  too,  which  Mr.  Barlow  gave 
him ;  but  as  he  had  never  before  learned  to  handle  one,  he  was 
very  awkward  in  the  use  of  it,  and  hit  himself  several  strokes 
upon  the  legs.  Mr.  Barlow  then  laid  down  his  own  spade,  and 
shewed  him  how  to  hold  and  use  it,  by  which  means,  in  a  very 
short  time,  he  became  very  expert,  and  worked  with  the  greatest 
pleasure.  When  their  work  was  over,  they  retired  all  three  to 
the  summer-house ;  and  Tommy  felt  the  greatest  joy  imaginable 
when  the  fruit  was  produced,  and  he  was  invited  to  take  his 
share,  which  seemed  to  him  the  most  dehcious  he  had  ever  tasted, 
because  working  in  the  air  had  given  him  an  appetite. 

As  soon  as  they  had  done  eating,  Mr.  Barlow  took  up  a  book, 
and  asked  Tommy  whether  he  would  read  them  a  story  out  of  it  ? 
but  he,  looking  a  little  ashamed  said  he  had  never  learned  to  read. 


694  THOMAS   DAY 

'I  am  very  sorry  for  it,'  said  Mr.  Barlow,  'because  you  lose  a 
very  great  pleasure:  then  Harry  shall  read  to  you.'  Harry 
accordingly  took  up  the  book,  and  read  the  following  story :  — 


From  this  time  forward,  Mr.  Barlow  and  his  two  Httle  pupils 
used  constantly  to  work  in  their  garden  every  morning;  and, 
when  they  were  fatigued,  they  retired  to  the  summer-house, 
where  little  Harry,  who  improved  every  day  in  reading,  used  to 
entertain  them  with  some  pleasant  story  or  other,  which  Tommy 
always  listened  to  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  But,  little  Harry 
going  home  for  a  week.  Tommy  and  Mr.  Barlow  were  left  alone. 

The  next  day,  after  they  had  done  work,  and  were  retired  to 
the  summer-house  as  usual,  Tommy  expected  Mr.  Barlow  would 
read  to  him ;  but,  to  his  great  disappointment,  found  that  he 
was  busy  and  could  not.  The  next  day  the  same  accident  was 
renewed,  and  the  day  after  that.  At  this  Tommy  lost  all  pa- 
tience, and  said  to  himself,  'Now  if  I  could  but  read  like  Harry 
Sandford,  I  should  not  need  to  ask  any  body  to  do  it  for  me,  and 
then  I  could  divert  myself :  and  why  (thinks  he)  may  not  I  do 
what  another  has  done  ?  To  be  sure,  little  Harry  is  very  clever ; 
but  he  could  not  have  read  if  he  had  not  been  taught ;  and  if  I 
am  taught,  I  dare  say  I  shall  learn  to  read  as  well  as  he.  Well, 
as  soon  as  ever  he  comes  home,  I  am  determined  to  ask  him 
about  it.' 

The  next  day  little  Harry  returned,  and  as  soon  as  Tommy  had 
an  opportunity  of  being  alone  with  him,  'Pray,  Harry,'  said 
Tommy,  'how  came  you  to  be  able  to  read  ?' 

Harry.  Why,  Mr.  Barlow  taught  me  my  letters,  and  then 
spelHng;  and  then  by  putting  syllables  together,  I  learned  to 
read.  —  Tommy.  And  could  not  you  show  me  my  letters  ?  — 
Harry.     Yes,  very  willingly. 

Harry  then  took  up  a  book,  and  Tommy  was  so  eager  and 
attentive,  that  at  the  very  first  lesson  he  learned  the  whole  al- 
phabet. He  was  infinitely  pleased  with  this  first  experiment, 
and  could  scarcely  forbear  running  to  Mr.  Barlow,  to  let  him  know 
the  improvement  he  had  made ;  but  he  thought  he  should  sur- 
prise him  more,  if  he  said  nothing  about  the  matter  till  he  was 


THE   HISTORY   OF   SANDFORD   AND   MERTON     695 

able  to  read  a  whole  story.  He  therefore  applied  himself  with 
such  diligence,  and  little  Harry,  who  spared  no  pains  to  assist 
his  friend,  was  so  good  a  master,  that  in  about  two  months  he 
determined  to  surprise  Mr.  Barlow  with  a  display  of  his  talents. 
Accordingly,  one  day,  when  they  were  all  assembled  in  the 
summer-house,  and  the  book  was  given  to  Harry,  Tommy  stood 
up  and  said,  that  if  Mr.  Barlow  pleased,  he  would  try  to  read. 
'Oh!  very  willingly,'  said  Mr.  Barlow,  'but  I  should  as  soon 
expect  you  to  fly  as  to  read.'  Tommy  smiled  with  a  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  proficiency,  and  taking  up  the  book,  read  with 
great  fluency. 


.  'Indeed,'  said  Mr.  Barlow,  when  the  story  was  ended,  'I  am 
sincerely  glad  to  find  that  Tommy  has  made  this  acquisition. 
He  will  now  depend  upon  nobody,  but  be  able  to  divert  himself 
whenever  he  pleases.  All  that  has  ever  been  written  in  our  own 
language  will  be  from  this  time  in  his  power ;  whether  he  chooses 
to  read  little  entertaining  stories  like  what  we  have  heard  to-day, 
or  to  read  the  actions  of  great  and  good  men  in  history,  or  to 
make  himself  acquainted  with  the  nature  of  wild  beasts  and  birds, 
which  are  found  in  other  countries,  and  have  been  described  in 
books ;  in  short,  I  scarcely  know  of  any  thing  which  from  this 
moment  will  not  be  in  his  power ;  and  I  do  not  despair  of  one 
day  seeing  him  a  very  sensible  man,  capable  of  teaching  and 
instructing  others.' 

'Yes,'  said  Tommy,  something  elated  by  all  this  praise,  'I  am 
determined  now  to  make  myself  as  clever  as  any  body ;  and  I 
don't  doubt,  though  I  am  such  a  Uttle  fellow,  that  I  know  more 
already  than  many  grown-up  people ;  and  I  am  sure,  though  there 
are  no  less  than  six  blacks  in  our  house,  that  there  is  not  one  of 
them  who  can  read  a  story  like  me.'  Mr.  Barlow  looked  a  Httle 
grave  at  this  sudden  display  of  vanity ;  and  said  rather  coolly, 
'  Pray,  who  has  attempted  to  teach  them  any  thing  ? '  '  Nobody, 
I  beHeve,'  said  Tommy.  'Where  is  the  great  wonder  then,  if 
they  are  ignorant?'  replied  Mr.  Barlow;  'you  would  probably 
have  never  known  any  thing  had  you  not  been  assisted ;  and 
even  now,  you  know  very  little.' 


696  THOMAS   DAY 

In  this  manner  did  Mr.  Barlow  begin  the  education  of  Tommy 
Merton,  who  had  naturally  very  good  dispositions,  although  he 
had  been  suffered  to  acquire  many  bad  habits,  that  sometimes 
prevented  them  from  appearing.  He  was,  in  particular,  very 
passionate,  and  thought  he  had  a  right  to  command  every  body 
that  was  not  dressed  as  fine  as  himself.  This  opinion  often  led 
him  into  inconveniences,  and  once  was  the  occasion  of  his  being 
severely  mortified. 

This  accident  happened  in  the  following  manner :  —  One  day 
as  Tommy  was  striking  a  ball  with  his  bat,  he  struck  it  over  a 
hedge  into  an  adjoining  field,  and  seeing  a  little  ragged  boy  walk- 
ing along  on  that  side,  he  ordered  him,  in  a  very  peremptory 
tone,  to  bring  it  to  him.  The  little  boy,  without  taking  any 
notice  of  what  was  said,  walked  on,  and  left  the  ball ;  upon 
which.  Tommy  called  out  more  loudly  than  before,  and  asked  if 
he  did  not  hear  what  was  said?  'Yes,'  said  the  boy,  'for  the 
matter  of  that,  I  am  not  deaf.'  'Oh!  are  you  not?'  replied 
Tommy  :  'then  bring  me  my  ball  directly.'  '  I  don't  choose  it,' 
said  the  boy.  'Sirrah,'  said  Tommy,  'if  I  come  to  you,  I  shall 
make  you  choose  it.'  'Perhaps  not,  my  pretty  little  master,' 
said  the  boy.  'You  little  rascal,'  said  Tommy,  who  now  began 
to  be  very  angry,  'if  I  come  over  the  hedge  I  will  thrash  you 
within  an  inch  of  your  life.'  To  this  the  other  made  no  answer 
but  by  a  loud  laugh ;  which  provoked  Tommy  so  much,  that  he 
clambered  over  the  hedge,  and  jumped  precipitately  down,  in- 
tending to  have  leaped  into  the  field  ;  but  unfortunately  his  foot 
slipped,  and  down  he  rolled  into  a  wet  ditch,  which  was  full  of 
mud  and  water ;  there  poor  Tommy  tumbled  about  for  some 
time,  endeavouring  to  get  out ;  but  it  was  to  no  purpose,  for  his 
feet  stuck  in  the  mud  or  slipped  off  from  the  bank  :  his  fine  waist- 
coat was  dirtied  all  over,  his  white  stockings,  covered  with  mire, 
his  breeches  filled  with  puddle  water ;  and,  to  add  to  his  distress, 
he  first  lost  one  shoe,  and  then  the  other ;  his  laced  hat  tumbled 
off  from  his  head,  and  was  completely  spoiled.  In  this  distress 
he  must  probably  have  remained  a  considerable  time,  had  not 
the  little  ragged  boy  taken  pity  on  him,  and  helped  him  out. 
T(jmmy  was  so  vexed  and  ashamed,  that  he  could  not  say  a  word, 
but  ran  home  in  such  a  dirty  plight,  that  Mr.  Barlow,  who  hap- 


THE  HISTORY  OF   SANDFORD   AND   MERTON     697 

pened  to  meet  him,  was  afraid  he  had  been  considerably  hurt; 
but  when  he  heard  the  accident  which  had  happened,  he  could 
not  help  smiling,  and  he  advised  Tommy  to  be  more  careful  for 
the  future  how  he  attempted  to  thrash  little  ragged  boys. 


Mr.  Barlow  then  came  to  call  them  in  to  read ;  and  told 
Tommy,  that  as  he  had  been  talking  so  much  about  good-nature 
to  animals,  he  had  looked  him  out  a  very  pretty  story  upon  the 
subject,  and  begged  that  he  would  read  it  well.  'That  I  will,' 
said  Tommy ;  '  for  I  begin  to  like  reading  extremely :  and  I 
think  that  I  am  happier  too  since  I  learned  it ;  for  now  I  can  al- 
ways divert  myself.'  'Indeed,'  answered  Mr.  Barlow,  'most 
people  find  it  so.  When  any  one  can  read,  he  will  not  find  the 
knowledge  any  burthen  to  him  :  and,  it  is  his  own  fault  if  he  is 
not  constantly  amused.  This  is  an  advantage,  Tommy,  which  a 
Gentleman,  since  you  are  so  fond  of  the  word,  may  more  par- 
ticularly enjoy,  because  he  has  so  much  time  at  his  own  disposal ; 
and  it  is  much  better  that  he  should  distinguish  himself  by  having 
more  knowledge  and  improvement  than  others,  than  by  fine 
clothes,  or  any  such  trifles,  which  any  one  may  have  that  can 
purchase  them,  as  well  as  himself.' 

Tommy  then  read,  with  a  clear  and  distinct  voice,  the  following 
story  of 

The  Good-natured  Little  Boy 

A  LITTLE  BoYwent  out,  one  morning,  to  walk  to  a  village  about 
five  miles  from  the  place  where  he  lived,  and  carried  with  him,  in 
a  basket,  the  provision  that  was  to  serve  him  the  whole  day.  As 
he  was  walking  along,  a  poor  little  half-starved  dog  came  up  to 
him,  wagging  his  tail,  and  seeming  to  entreat  him  to  take  com- 
passion on  him.  The  little  boy  at  first  took  no  notice  of  him,  but 
at  length,  remarking  how  lean  and  famished  the  creature  seemed 
to  be,  he  said,  'This  animal  is  certainly  in  very  great  necessity : 
if  I  give  him  part  of  my  provision,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  home 
hungry  myself ;  however,  as  he  seems  to  want  it  more  than  I  do, 
he  shall  partake  with  me.'  Saying  this,  he  gave  the  dog  part  of 
what  he  had  in  the  basket,  who  ate  as  if  he  had  not  tasted  victuals 
for  a  fortnight. 


698  THOMAS   DAY 

The  little  Boy  then  went  on  a  little  farther,  his  dog  still  follow- 
ing him,  and  fawning  upon  him  with  the  greatest  gratitude  and 
affection  :  when  he  saw  a  poor  old  horse  lying  upon  the  ground, 
and  groaning  as  if  he  was  very  ill :  he  went  up  to  him,  and  saw 
that  he  was  almost  starved,  and  so  weak  that  he  was  unable  to 
rise.  'I  am  very  much  afraid,'  said  the  little  Boy,  'if  I  stay  to 
assist  this  horse,  that  it  will  be  dark  before  I  can  return ;  and  I 
have  heard  that  there  are  several  thieves  in  the  neighbourhood  : 
however,  I  will  try ;  it  is  doing  a  good  action  to  attempt  to  re- 
Heve  him;  and  God  Almighty  will  take  care  of  me.'  He  then 
went  and  gathered  some  grass,  which  he  brought  to  the  horse's 
mouth,  who  immediately  began  to  eat  with  as  much  relish  as  if 
his  chief  disease  was  hunger.  He  then  fetched  some  water  in  his 
hat,  which  the  animal  drank  up,  and  seemed  immediately  to  be 
so  much  refreshed  that,  after  a  few  trials,  he  got  up,  and  began 
grazing. 

The  little  Boy  then  went  on  a  little  farther,  and  saw  a  man 
wading  about  in  a  pond  of  water,  without  being  able  to  get  out 
of  it,  in  spite  of  all  his  endeavours.  'What  is  the  matter,  good 
man,'  said  the  little  Boy  to  him ;  'can't  you  find  your  way  out  of 
this  pond?'  'No,  God  bless  you,  my  worthy  master,  or  miss,' 
said  the  man  ;  '  for  such  I  take  you  to  be  by  your  voice ;  I  have 
fallen  into  this  pond,  and  know  not  how  to  get  out  again,  as  I 
am  quite  blind,  and  I  am  almost  afraid  to  move  for  fear  of  being 
drowned.'  'Well,'  said  the  little  Boy,  'though  I  shall  be  wetted 
to  the  skin,  if  you  will  throw  me  your  stick,  I  will  try  to  help 
you  out  of  it.'  The  blind  man  then  threw  the  stick  to  that  side 
on  which  he  heard  the  voice ;  the  little  Boy  caught  it,  and  went 
into  the  water,  feeling  very  carefully  before  him,  lest  he  should 
unguardedly  go  beyond  his  depth  ;  at  length  he  reached  the  blind 
man,  took  him  very  carefully  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  out.  The 
blind  man  then  gave  him  a  thousand  blessings,  and  told  him  he 
could  grope  his  way  home ;  and  the  Httle  Boy  ran  on  as  hard  as 
he  could  to  prevent  being  benighted. 

But  he  had  not  proceeded  far,  before  he  saw  a  poor  Sailor, 
who  had  lost  both  his  legs  in  an  engagement  by  sea,  hopping  along 
upon  crutches.  '  God  bless  you,  my  Httle  master! '  said  the  sailor ; 
*I  have  fought  many  a  battle  with  the  French,  to  defend  poor 


THE  HISTORY  OF   SANDFORD   AND   MERTON     699 

old  England  :  but  now  I  am  crippled,  as  you  see,  and  have  neither 
victuals  nor  money,  although  I  am  almost  famished.'  The  little 
Boy  could  not  resist  his  inclination  to  relieve  him ;  so  he  gave 
him  all  his  remaining  victuals,  and  said,  'God  help  you,  poor 
man  !  this  is  all  I  have,  otherwise  you  should  have  more.'  He 
then  ran  along  and  presently  arrived  at  the  town  he  was  going  to, 
did  his  business,  and  returned  towards  his  own  home,  with  all 
the  expedition  he  was  able. 

But  he  had  not  gone  much  more  than  half  way,  before  the 
night  shut  in  extremely  dark,  without  either  moon  or  stars  to 
light  hhn.  The  poor  little  Boy  used  his  utmost  endeavours  to  find 
his  way,  but  unfortunately  missed  it  in  turning  down  a  lane 
which  brought  him  into  a  wood,  where  he  wandered  about  a 
great  while  without  being  able  to  find  any  path  to  lead  him  out. 
Tired  out  at  last,  and  hungry,  he  felt  himself  so  feeble,  that  he 
could  go  no  farther,  but  set  himself  down  upon  the  ground,  crying 
most  bitterly.  In  this  situation  he  remained  for  some  time,  till 
at  last  the  little  dog,  who  had  never  forsaken  him,  came  up  to 
him,  wagging  his  tail,  and  holding  something  in  his  mouth.  The 
Httle  Boy  took  it  from  him,  and  saw  it  was  a  handkerchief  nicely 
pinned  together,  which  somebody  had  dropped,  and  the  dog  had 
picked  up ;  and  on  opening  it,  he  found  several  sUces  of  bread 
and  meat,  which  the  Uttle  Boy  ate  with  great  satisfaction,  and 
felt  himself  extremely  refreshed  with  his  meal.  'So,'  said  the 
Httle  Boy,  'I  see  that  if  I  have  given  you  a  breakfast,  you  have 
given  me  a  supper ;  and  a  good  turn  is  never  lost,  done  even  to 
a  dog.' 

He  then  once  more  attempted  to  escape  from  the  wood ;  but 
it  was  to  no  purpose  ;  he  only  scratched  his  legs  with  briars,  and 
slipped  down  in  the  dirt,  without  being  able  to  find  his  way  out. 
He  was  just  going  to  give  up  all  farther  attempts  in  despair, 
when  he  happened  to  see  a  horse  feeding  before  him,  and,  going 
up  to  him,  saw,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  just  then  began 
to  shine  a  Httle,  that  it  was  the  very  same  he  had  fed  in  the 
morning.  'Perhaps,'  said  the  Httle  Boy,  'this  creature,  as  I 
have  been  so  good  to  him,  will  let  me  get  upon  his  back,  and  he 
may  bring  me  out  of  the  wood,  as  he  is  accustomed  to  feed  in 
this  neighbourhood.'     The  Httle  Boy  then  went  up  to  the  horse, 


yoo  THOMAS   DAY 

speaking  to  him  and  stroking  him,  and  the  horse  let  him  mount 
his  back  without  opposition  ;  and  then  proceeded  slowly  through 
the  wood  grazing  as  he  went,  till  he  brought  him  to  an  opening, 
which  led  to  the  high  road.  The  Httle  Boy  was  much  rejoiced 
at  this,  and  said,  'If  I  had  not  saved  this  creature's  hfe  in  the 
morning,  I  should  have  been  obliged  to  have  staid  here  all  night ; 
I  see  by  this,  that  a  good  turn  is  never  lost.' 

But  the  poor  Httle  Boy  had  yet  a  greater  danger  to  undergo ; 
for,  as  he  was  going  along  a  sohtary  lane,  two  men  rushed  out 
upon  him,  laid  hold  of  him,  and  were  going  to  strip  him  of  his 
clothes ;  but  just  as  they  were  beginning  to  do  it,  the  Httle  dog 
bit  the  leg  of  one  of  the  men  with  so  much  violence,  that  he  left 
the  Httle  Boy  and  pursued  the  dog,  that  ran  howling  and  barking 
away.  In  this  instant  a  voice  was  heard  that  cried  out, '  There 
the  rascals  are ;  let  us  knock  them  down  ! '  which  frightened  the 
remaining  man  so  much,  that  he  ran  away,  and  his  companion 
followed  him.  The  Httle  Boy  then  looked  up,  and  saw  that  it 
was  the  Sailor,  whom  he  had  reHeved  in  the  morning,  carried 
upon  the  shoulders  of  the  bHnd  man  whom  he  had  helped  out  of 
the  pond.  'There,  my  Httle  dear,'  said  the  Sailor,  'God  be 
thanked  !  we  have  come  in  time  to  do  you  a  service,  in  return 
for  what  you  did  us  in  the  morning.  As  I  lay  under  a  hedge  I 
heard  these  villains  talk  of  robbing  a  Httle  boy,  who,  from  the 
description,  I  concluded  must  be  you  :  but  I  was  so  lame,  that 
I  should  not  have  been  able  to  come  time  enough  to  help  you,  if 
1  had  not  met  this  honest  blind  man,  who  took  me  upon  his  back 
while  I  showed  him  the  way.' 

The  Httle  Boy  thanked  them  very  sincerely  for  thus  defending 
him  ;  and  they  went  aH  together  to  his  father's  house,  which  was 
not  far  off ;  where  they  were  all  kindly  entertained  with  a  supper 
and  a  bed.  The  little  Boy  took  care  of  his  faithful  dog  as  long 
as  he  Hved,  and  never  forgot  the  importance  and  necessity  of 
doing  good  to  others,  if  we  wish  them  to  do  the  same  to  us. 

'Upon  my  word,'  said  Tommy,  when  he  had  finished,  'I  am 
vastly  pleased  with  this  story ;  and  I  think  that  it  may  very 
Hkely  be  true,  for  I  have  myself  observed  that  every  thing  seems 
to  love  Httle  Harry  here,  merely  because  he  is  good-natured  to  it. 


THE   HISTORY  OF   SANDFORD   AND   MERTON     701 

I  was  much  surprised  to  see  the  great  dog,  the  other  day,  which  I 
have  never  dared  to  touch  for  fear  of  being  bitten,  fawning  upon 
him,  and  Hcking  him  all  over  :  it  put  me  in  mind  of  the  story  of 
Androcles  and  the  Lion.'  'That  dog,'  said  Mr.  Barlow,  'will 
be  equally  fond  of  you,  if  you  are  kind  to  him  :  for  nothing  equals 
the  sagacity  and  gratitude  of  a  dog.  But  since  you  have  read  a 
story  about  a  good-natured  boy,  Harry  shall  read  you  another, 
concerning  a  boy  of  a  contrary  disposition.' 


Mr.  Barlow  told  them  they  had  better  leave  off  [reading]  for  the 
present,  and  go  to  some  other  employment.  They  therefore 
went  into  their  garden  to  resume  the  labour  of  their  house ;  but 
found,  to  their  unspeakable  regret,  that,  during  their  absence, 
an  accident  had  happened,  which  had  entirely  destroyed  all  their 
labours :  a  violent  storm  of  wind  and  rain  had  risen  that  morn- 
ing, which,  blowing  full  against  the  walls  of  their  newly-con- 
structed house,  had  levelled  it  with  the  ground.  Tommy  could 
scarcely  refrain  from  crying  when  he  saw  the  ruins  lying  around ; 
but  Harry,  who  bore  the  loss  with  more  composure,  told  him  not 
to  mind  it,  for  it  could  be  easily  repaired,  and  they  would  build 
it  stronger  the  next  time. 

Harry  then  went  up  to  the  spot,  and  after  examining  it  some 
time  told  Tommy  that  he  believed  he  had  found  out  the  reason 
of  their  misfortune.  —  'What  is  it?'  said  Tommy.  —  'Why,' 
said  Harry,  'it  is  only  because  we  did  not  drive  these  stakes, 
which  are  to  bear  the  whole  weight  of  our  house,  far  enough  into 
the  ground  :  and,  therefore,  when  the  wind  blew  against  the  fiat 
side  of  it  with  so  much  violence,  it  could  not  resist.  And  now 
I  remember  to  have  seen  the  workmen,  when  they  begin  a  build- 
ing, dig  a  considerable  way  into  the  ground,  to  lay  the  foundation 
fast :  and  I  should  think  that,  if  we  drove  these  stakes  a  great 
way  into  the  ground,  it  would  produce  the  same  effect,  and  we 
should  have  nothing  to  fear  from  any  future  storms.' 

Mr.  Barlow  then  came  into  the  garden,  and  the  two  boys 
shewed  him  their  misfortune,  and  asked  him  whether  he  did  not 
think  that  driving  the  stakes  further  in  would  prevent  such  an 
accident  for  the  future  ?     Mr.  Barlow  told  them  he  thought  it 


702  THOMAS   DAY 

would ;  and  that,  as  they  were  too  short  to  reach  to  the  top  of 
the  stakes  he  would  assist  them.  He  then  went  in  and  brought  a 
wooden  mallet,  with  which  he  struck  the  tops  of  the  stakes,  and 
drove  them  so  fast  into  the  ground,  that  there  was  no  longer 
any  danger  of  their  being  shaken  by  the  weather.  Harry  and 
Tommy  then  applied  themselves  with  so  much  assiduity  to  their 
work,  that  they  in  a  very  short  time  had  repaired  all  the  damage, 
and  advanced  it  as  far  as  it  had  been  before. 

The  next  thing  that  was  necessary  to  be  done,  was  putting  on 
a  roof ;  for  hitherto  they  had  constructed  nothing  but  the  walls. 
For  this  purpose  they  took  several  other  long  poles,  which  they 
had  laid  across  their  building  where  it  was  most  narrow :  and 
upon  these  they  placed  straw  in  considerable  quantities,  so  that 
they  now  imagined  they  had  constructed  a  house  that  would 
completely  screen  them  from  the  weather.  But  in  this,  un- 
fortunately, they  were  again  mistaken  ;  for  a  very  violent  shower 
of  rain  coming  just  as  they  had  finished  their  building,  they  took 
shelter  under  it,  and  remarked  for  some  time,  with  infinite 
pleasure,  how  dry  and  comfortable  it  kept  them :  but  at  last, 
the  straw  that  covered  it  being  completely  soaked  through,  and 
the  water  having  no  vent  to  run  off,  by  reason  of  the  flatness 
of  the  roof,  the  rain  began  to  penetrate  in  considerable  quantities. 

For  some  time  Harry  and  Tommy  bore  the  inconveniency ; 
but  it  increased  so  much,  that  they  were  soon  obliged  to  leave  it 
and  seek  for  shelter  in  the  house.  When  they  were  thus  secured, 
they  began  again  to  consider  the  affair  of  the  house ;  and  Tommy 
said,  that  it  surely  must  be  because  they  had  not  put  straw  enough 
upon  it.  'No,'  said  Harry ;  'i  think  that  cannot  be  the  reason  ; 
I  rather  imagine  that  it  must  be  owing  to  our  roof  lying  so  flat : 
for  I  have  observed,  that  all  the  houses  that  I  have  ever  seen, 
have  their  roofs  in  a  shelving  posture,  by  which  means  the  wet 
continually  runs  off  from  them,  and  falls  to  the  ground ;  whereas 
ours,  being  quite  flat,  detained  almost  ah  the  rain  that  fell  upon 
it,  which  must  necessarily  soak  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  straw, 
till  it  penetrated  quite  through.' 

They  therefore  agreed  to  remedy  this  defect;  and  for  this 
purpose  they  took  several  poles  of  an  equal  length,  the  one  end 
of  which  they  fastened  to  the  side  of  the  house,  and  let  the  other 


THE  HISTORY  OF   SANDFORD   AND   MERTON     703 

two  ends  meet  in  the  middle  ;  by  which  means  they  formed  a  roof, 
exactly  hke  that  which  we  commonly  see  upon  buildings :  they 
also  took  several  poles,  which  they  tied  across  the  others,  to  keep 
them  firm  in  their  places,  and  give  the  roof  additional  strength  : 
and,  lastly,  they  covered  the  whole  with  straw  or  thatch,  and 
for  fear  the  thatch  should  be  blown  away  they  stuck  several  pegs 
in  different  places,  and  put  small  pieces  of  stick  crosswise  from 
peg  to  peg,  to  keep  the  straw  in  its  place.  When  this  was  done, 
they  found  they  had  a  very  tolerable  house  ;  only  the  sides,  being 
formed  of  brushwood  alone,  did  not  sufficiently  exclude  the  wind. 
To  remedy  this  inconvenience,  Harry,  who  was  chief  architect, 
procured  some  clay,  and  mixing  it  up  with  water,  to  render  it 
sufficiently  soft,  he  daubed  it  all  over  the  walls,  both  within  and 
without,  by  which  means  the  wind  was  excluded,  and  the  house 
rendered  much  warmer  than  before. 


One  day  ^  Tommy  was  surprised  by  an  unexpected  visit  from  his 
father,  who  met  him  with  open  arms,  and  told  him,  that  he  was 
now  come  to  take  him  back  to  his  own  house.  'I  have  heard,' 
said  he,  'such  an  account  of  your  present  behaviour,  that  the 
past  is  entirely  forgotten ;  and  I  begin  to  glory  in  owning  you 
for  a  son.'  He  then  embraced  him  with  the  transports  of  an 
affectionate  father  who  indulges  the  strongest  sentiments  of  his 
heart,  but  sentiments  he  had  long  been  forced  to  restrain. 

Tommy  returned  his  father's  caresses  with  genuine  warmth, 
but  with  a  degree  of  respect  and  humihty  he  had  once  been  little 
accustomed  to  use.  'I  will  accompany  you  home,  sir,'  said  he, 
'with  the  greatest  readiness:  for  I  wish  to  see  my  mother,  and 
hope  to  give  her  some  satisfaction  by  my  future  behaviour.  You 
have  both  had  too  much  to  complain  of  in  the  past ;  and  I  am 
unworthy  of  such  affectionate  parents.'  He  then  turned  his 
face  aside,  and  shed  a  tear  of  real  virtue  and  gratitude,  which  he 
instantly  wiped  away  as  unworthy  the  composure  and  fortitude 
of  his  new  character. 

'But,  sir,'  added  he,  'I  hope  you  will  not  object  to  my  detaining 

1  This  happens  after  Tommy  has  been  under  Mr.  Barlow's  instruction  long  enough  to 
have  become  a  credit  to  the  method. 


704  THOMAS   DAY 

you  a  little  longer,  while  I  return  my  acknowledgments  to  all 
the  family,  and  take  my  leave  of  Harry.'  —  'Surely,'  said. Mr. 
Merton,  'you  can  entertain  no  doubt  on  that  subject:  and  to 
give  you  every  opportunity  of  discharging  all  your  duties  to  a 
family,  to  which  you  owe  so  much,  I  intend  to  take  a  dinner 
with  Mr.  Sandford,  whom  I  now  see  coming  home,  and  then 
to  return  with  you  in  the  evening.' 

At  this  instant,  farmer  Sandford  approached,  and  very  re- 
spectfully saluting  Mr.  Merton,  invited  him  to  walk  in.  But  Mr. 
Merton,  after  returning  his  civility,  drew  him  aside,  as  if  he  had 
some  private  business  to  communicate.  When  they  were  alone, 
he  made  him  every  acknowledgment  that  gratitude  could  sug- 
gest:  'but  words,'  added  Mr.  Merton,  'are  very  insufficient  to 
return  the  favours  I  have  received :  for  it  is  to  your  excellent 
family,  together  with  the  virtuous  Mr.  Barlow,  that  I  owe  the 
preservation  of  my  son.  Let  me,  therefore,  entreat  you  to  ac- 
cept of  what  this  pocket-book  contains  as  a  sHght  proof  of  my 
sentiments :  and  lay  it  out  in  whatever  manner  you  please,  for 
the  advantage  of  your  family.' 

Mr.  Sandford,  who  was  a  man  both  of  sense  and  humour,  took 
the  book,  and  examining  the  inside,  found  that  it  contained  bank 
notes  to  the  amount  of  some  hundred  pounds.  He  then  carefully 
shut  it  up  again,  and  returning  it  to  Mr.  Merton,  told  him,  'that 
he  was  infinitely  obliged  to  him  for  the  generosity  which  prompted 
him  to  such  a  princely  act ;  but,  as  to  the  present  itself  he  must 
not  be  offended  if  he  declined  it.'  Mr.  Merton  still  more  as- 
tonished at  such  disinterestedness,  pressed  him  with  every  argu- 
ment he  could  think  of ;  he  desired  him  to  consider  the  state  of 
his  family ;  his  daughters  unprovided  for ;  his  son  himself,  with 
dispositions  that  might  adorn  a  throne,  brought  up  to  labour; 
and  his  own  advancing  age,  which  demanded  ease  and  respite, 
and  an  increase  of  the  conveniences  of  hfe. 


And  now  Mr.  Merton,  having  made  the  most  affectionate 
acknowledgments  to  all  this  worthy  and  happy  family,  among 
whom  he  did  not  forget  the  honest  Black ^  whom  he  promised  to 

'  A  negro  who  had  rescued  Tommy  from  an  angry  bull. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   SANDFORD   AND   MERTON     705 

provide  for,  summoned  his  son  to  accompany  him  home. 
Tommy  arose,  and  with  the  sincerest  gratitude,  bade  adieu  to 
Harry  and  all  the  rest.  —  'I  shall  not  be  long  without  you,'  said 
he  to  Harry  ;  '  to  your  example  I  owe  most  of  the  little  good  that 
I  can  boast :  you  have  taught  me  how  much  better  it  is  to  be 
useful  than  rich  or  fine  :  how  much  more  amiable  to  be  good  than 
to  be  great.  Should  I  ever  be  tempted  to  relapse,  even  for  an 
instant,  into  any  of  my  former  habits,  I  will  return  hither  for 
instruction,  and  I  hope  you  will  again  receive  me.'  Saying  this, 
he  shook  his  friend  Harry  affectionately  by  the  hand,  and,  with 
watery  eyes,  accompanied  his  father  home. 


NATURE  AND  ART 
MRS.   ELIZABETH  INCHBALD 

CHAPTER  I 

At  a  time  when  the  nobility  of  Britain  were  said,  by  the  poet 
laureate,  to  be  the  admirers  and  protectors  of  the  arts,  and  were 
acknowledged  by  the  whole  nation  to  be  the  patrons  of  music  — 
William  and  Henry,  youths  under  twenty  years  of  age,  brothers, 
and  the  sons  of  a  country  shopkeeper  who  had  lately  died  in- 
solvent, set  out  on  foot  for  London,  in  the  hope  of  procuring  by 
their  industry  a  scanty  subsistence. 

As  they  walked  out  of  their  native  town,  each  with  a  small 
bundle  at  his  back,  each  observed  the  other  drop  several  tears : 
but,  upon  the  sudden  meeting  of  their  eyes,  they  both  smiled 
with  a  degree  of  disdain  at  the  weakness  in  which  they  had 
been  caught. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  William  (the  elder),  "I  don't  know  what 
makes  me  cry." 

"Nor  I  neither,"  said  Henry ;  "for  though  we  may  never  see 
this  town  again,  yet  we  leave  nothing  behind  us  to  give  us  reason 
to  lament." 

"No,"  replied  Wilham,  "nor  anybody  who  cares  what  becomes 
of  us." 

"But  I  was  thinking,"  said  Henry,  now  weeping  bitterly,  "  that, 
if  my  poor  father  were  alive,  he  would  care  what  was  to  become 
of  us  :  he  would  not  have  suffered  us  to  begin  this  long  journey 
without  a  few  more  shiUings  in  our  pockets." 

At  the  end  of  this  sentence,  William,  who  had  with  some  effort 
suppressed  his  tears  while  his  brother  spoke,  now  uttered,  with  a 
voice  almost  inarticulate,  —  "Don't  say  any  more;  don't  talk 
any  more  about  it.  My  father  used  to  tell  us,  that  when  he  was 
gone  wc  must  take  care  of  ourselves :   and  so  we  must.     I  only 

706 


NATURE   AND   ART  707 

wish,"  continued  he,  giving  way  to  his  grief,  "that  I  had  never 
done  anything  to  offend  him  while  he  was  living." 

"That  is  what  I  wish  too,"  cried  Henry.  "If  I  had  always 
been  dutiful  to  him  while  he  was  alive,  I  would  not  shed  one 
tear  for  him  now  that  he  is  gone ;  but  I  would  thank  Heaven 
that  he  has  escaped  from  his  creditors." 

In  conversation  such  as  this,  wherein  their  sorrow  for  their 
deceased  parent  seemed  less  for  his  death  than  because  he  had 
not  been  so  happy  when  living  as  they  ought  to  have  made  him  ; 
and  wherein  their  own  outcast  fortune  was  less  the  subject  of 
their  grief,  than  the  reflection  what  their  father  would  have  en- 
dured could  he  have  beheld  them  in  their  present  situation ; 
—  in  conversation  such  as  this,  they  pursued  their  journey  till 
they  arrived  at  that  metropolis,  which  has  received  for  centuries 
past,  from  the  provincial  towns,  the  bold  adventurer  of  every 
denomination ;  has  stamped  his  character  with  experience  and 
example;  and,  while  it  has  bestowed  on  some  coronets  and 
mitres  —  on  some  the  lasting  fame  of  genius  —  to  others  has 
dealt  beggary,  infamy,  and  untimely  death. 

CHAPTER  II 

After  three  weeks  passed  in  London,  a  year  followed,  during 
which  WiUiam  and  Henry  never  sat  down  to  a  dinner,  or  went 
into  a  bed,  without  hearts  glowing  with  thankfulness  to  that 
Providence  who  had  bestowed  on  them  such  unexpected  bless- 
ings ;  for  they  no  longer  presumed  to  expect  (what  still  they 
hoped  they  deserved)  a  secure  pittance  in  this  world  of  plenty. 
Their  experience,  since  they  came  to  town,  had  informed 
them  that  to  obtain  a  permanent  livehhood  is  the  good  fortune  but 
of  a  part  of  those  who  are  in  want  of  it :  and  the  precarious 
earning  of  half-a-crown,  or  a  shilling,  in  the  neighbourhood  where 
they  lodged,  by  an  errand,  or  some  such  accidental  means,  was  the 
sole  support  which  they  at  present  enjoyed. 

They  had  sought  for  constant  employment  of  various  kinds, 
and  even  for  servants'  places  ;  but  obstacles  had  always  occurred 
to  prevent  their  success.  If  they  applied  for  the  situation  of  a 
clerk  to  a  man  of  extensive  concerns,  their  qualifications  were 


7o8  MRS.   ELIZABETH  INCHBALD 

admitted  ;  but  there  must  be  security  given  for  their  fidehty ;  — • 
they  had  friends,  who  would  give  them  a  character,  but  who 
would  give  them  nothing  else. 

If  they  applied  for  the  place  even  of  a  menial  servant,  they  were 
too  clownish  and  awkward  for  the  presence  of  the  lady  of  the 
house ;  —  and  once,  when  Wilham  (who  had  been  educated 
at  the  free  grammar-school  of  the  town  in  which  he  was  born, 
and  was  an  excellent  scholar),  hoping  to  obtain  the  good  opinion 
of  a  young  clergyman  whom  he  solicited  for  the  favour  of  waiting 
upon  him,  said  submissively,  "that  he  understood  Greek  and 
Latin,"  he  was  rejected  by  the  divine,  "because  he  could  not 
dress  hair." 

Weary  of  repeating  their  mean  accomplishments  of  "honesty, 
sobriety,  humility,"  and  on  the  precipice  of  reprobating  such 
qualities,  —  which,  however  beneficial  to  the  soul,  gave  no  hope  of 
preservation  to  the  body,  —  they  were  prevented  from  this  prof- 
anation by  the  fortunate  remembrance  of  one  quahfication, 
which  Henry,  the  possessor,  in  all  his  distress,  had  never  till 
then  called  to  his  recollection ;  but  which,  as  soon  as  remembered 
and  made  known,  changed  the  whole  prospect  of  wretchedness 
placed  before  the  two  brothers ;  and  they  never  knew  want 
more. 

Reader  —  Henry  could  play  upon  the  fiddle. 

CHAPTER  III 

No  sooner  was  it  publicly  known  that  Henry  could  play  most 
enchantingly  upon  the  violin,  than  he  was  invited  into  many 
companies  where  no  other  accomplishment  could  have  introduced 
him.  His  performance  was  so  much  admired,  that  he  had  the 
honour  of  being  admitted  to  several  tavern  feasts,  of  which  he 
had  also  the  honour  to  partake  without  partaking  of  the  ex- 
pense. He  was  soon  addressed  by  persons  of  the  very  first  rank 
and  fashion,  and  was  once  seen  walking  side  by  side  with  a  peer. 

But  yet,  in  the  midst  of  this  powerful  occasion  for  rejoicing, 
Henry,  whose  heart  was  particularly  affectionate,  had  one  grief 
which  eclipsed  all  the  happiness  of  his  new  life;  —  his  brother 
William  could  not  play  on  the  fiddle  !  consequently,  his  brother 


NATURE  AND   ART 


709 


William,  with  whom  he  had  shared  so  much  ill,  could  not  share 
in  his  good  fortune. 

One  evening,  Henry,  coming  home  from  a  dinner  and  concert 
at  the  Crown  and  Anchor  found  Wilham,  in  a  very  gloomy  and 
peevish  humour,  poring  over  the  orations  of  Cicero.  Henry 
asked  him  several  times  "how  he  did,"  and  similar  questions, 
marks  of  his  kind  disposition  towards  his  beloved  brother : 
but  all  his  endeavours,  he  perceived,  could  not  soothe  or  soften 
the  sullen  mind  of  Wilham.  At  length,  taking  from  his  pocket 
a  handful  of  almonds,  and  some  dehcious  fruit  (which  he  had 
purloined  from  the  plenteous  table,  where  his  brother's  wants 
had  never  been  absent  from  his  thoughts),  and  laying  them  down 
before  him,  he  exclaimed,  with  a  benevolent  smile,  "Do,  Wilham, 
let  me  teach  you  to  play  upon  the  violin." 

William,  full  of  the  great  orator  whom  he  was  then  studying, 
and  still  more  ahve  to  the  impossibihty  that  his  ear,  attuned 
only  to  sense,  could  ever  descend  from  that  elevation,  to  learn 
mere  sounds  —  Wilham  caught  up  the  tempting  presents  which 
Henry  had  ventured  his  reputation  to  obtain  for  him,  and  threw 
them  all  indignantly  at  the  donor's  head. 

Henry  felt  too  powerfully  his  own  superiority  of  fortune  to 
resent  this  ingratitude :  he  patiently  picked  up  the  repast,  and 
laying  it  again  upon  the  table,  placed  by  its  side  a  bottle  of  claret, 
which  he  held  fast  by  the  neck,  while  he  assured  his  brother  that, 
"although  he  had  taken  it  while  the  waiter's  back  was  turned, 
yet  it  might  be  drank  with  a  safe  conscience  by  them ;  for  he 
had  not  himself  tasted  one  drop  at  the  feast,  on  purpose  that  he 
might  enjoy  a  glass  with  his  brother  at  home,  and  without 
wronging  the  company  who  had  invited  him." 

The  affection  Henry  expressed  as  he  said  this,  or  the  force  of 
a  bumper  of  wine,  which  William  had  not  seen  since  he  left  his 
father's  house,  had  such  an  effect  in  calming  the  displeasure  he 
was  cherishing,  that,  on  his  brother  offering  him  the  glass,  he 
took  it ;  and  he  deigned  even  to  eat  of  his  present. 

Henry,  to  convince  him  that  he  had  stinted  himself  to  obtain 
for  him  this  collation,  sat  down  and  partook  of  it. 

After  a  few  glasses,  he  again  ventured  to  say,  "Do,  brother 
Wilham,  let  me  teach  you  to  play  on  the  viohn." 


7IO  MRS.   ELIZABETH  INCHBALD 

Again  his  offer  was  refused,  though  with  less  vehemence : 
at  length  they  both  agreed  that  the  attempt  could  not  prosper. 

"Then,"  said  Henry,  "WiUiam,  go  down  to  Oxford  or  to  Cam- 
bridge. There,  no  doubt,  they  are  as  fond  of  learning  as  in 
this  gay  town  they  are  of  music.  You  know  you  have  as  much 
talent  for  the  one  as  I  for  the  other  :  do  go  to  one  of  our  universi- 
ties, and  see  what  dinners,  what  suppers,  and  what  friends  you 
will  find  there." 

CHAPTER  IV 

William  did  go  to  one  of  those  seats  of  learning,  and  would 
have  starved  there,  but  for  the  affectionate  remittances  of  Henry, 
who  shortly  became  so  great  a  proficient  in  the  art  of  music, 
as  to  have  it  in  his  power  not  only  to  live  in  a  very  reputable 
manner  himself,  but  to  send  such  supplies  to  his  brother,  as 
enabled  him  to  pursue  his  studies. 

With  some,  the  progress  of  fortune  is  rapid.  Such  is  the  case 
when,  either  on  merit  or  demerit,  great  patronage  is  bestowed. 
Henry's  vioHn  had  often  charmed,  to  a  welcome  forgetfulness  of 
his  insignificance,  an  effeminate  lord ;  or  warmed  with  ideas  of 
honour  the  head  of  a  duke,  whose  heart  could  never  be  taught  to 
feel  its  manly  glow.  Princes  had  flown  to  the  arms  of  their 
favourite  fair  ones  with  more  rapturous  delight,  softened  by 
the  masterly  touches  of  his  art :  and  these  elevated  personages, 
ever  grateful  to  those  from  whom  they  receive  benefits,  were  com- 
petitors in  the  desire  of  heaping  favours  upon  him.  But  he,  in 
all  his  advantages,  never  once  lost  for  a  moment  the  hope  of 
some  advantage  for  his  brother  William  :  and  when  at  any  time 
he  was  pressed  by  a  patron  to  demand  a  "token  of  his  regard," 
he  would  constantly  reply  — 

"I  have  a  brother,  a  very  learned  man,  if  your  lordship  (your 
grace,  or  your  royal  highness)  would  confer  some  small  favour 
on  him " 

His  lordship  would  reply,  "He  was  so  teased  and  harassed 
in  his  youth  by  learned  men,  that  he  had  ever  since  detested  the 
whole  fraternity." 

His  grace  would  inquire,  "if  the  learned  man  could  play  upon 
any  instrument." 


NATURE  AND   ART  711 

And  his  highness  would  ask  "if  he  could  sing." 
Rebuffs  such  as  these  poor  Henry  met  with  in  all  his  applica- 
tions for  William,  till  one  fortunate  evening,  at  the  conclusion 
of  a  concert,  a  great  man  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  promised 
a  living  of  five  hundred  a  year  (the  incumbent  of  which  was  upon 
^his  death-bed)  to  his  brother,  in  return  for  the  entertainment 
that  Henry  had  just  afforded  him. 

Henry  wrote  in  haste  to  William,  and  began  his  letter  thus : 
"My  dear  brother,  I  am  not  sorry  you  did  not  learn  to  play  upon 
the  fiddle." 

CHAPTER   V 

The  incumbent  of  this  Hving  died  —  WiUiam  underwent  the 
customary  examinations,  obtained  successively  the  orders  of 
deacon  and  priest ;  then  as  early  as  possible  came  to  town  to 
take  possession  of  the  gift  which  his  brother's  skill  had  acquired 
for  him. 

William  had  a  steady  countenance,  a  stern  brow,  and  a  majestic 
walk;  all  of  which  this  new  accession,  this  holy  .calHng  to 
religious  vows,  rather  increased  than  diminished.  In  the  early 
part  of  his  hfe,  the  violin  of  his  brother  had  rather  irritated 
than  soothed  the  morose  disposition  of  his  nature :  and  though, 
since  their  departure  from  their  native  habitation,  it  had  fre- 
quently calmed  the  violent  ragings  of  his  hunger,  it  had  never 
been  successful  in  appeasing  the  disturbed  passions  of  a  proud 
and  disdainful  mind. 

As  the  painter  views  with  delight  and  wonder  the  finished 
picture,  expressive  testimony  of  his  taste  and  genius ;  as  the 
physician  beholds  with  pride  and  gladness  the  recovering  in- 
valid, whom  his  art  has  snatched  from  the  jaws  of  death ;  as 
the  father  gazes  with  rapture  on  his  first  child,  the  creature  to 
whom  he  has  given  life ;  so  did  Henry  survey,  with  transporting 
glory,  his  brother,  dressed  for  the  first  time  in  canonicals,  to 
preach  at  his  parish  church.  He  viewed  him  from  head  to  foot  — 
smiled  —  viewed  again  —  pulled  one  side  of  his  gown  a  httle 
this  way,  one  end  of  his  band  a  Httle  that  way ;  then  stole  behind 
him,  pretending  to  place  the  curls  of  his  hair,  but  in  reahty  to 
indulge  and  to  conceal  tears  of  fraternal  pride  and  joy. 


712 


MRS.    ELIZABETH   INCHBALD 


William  was  not  without  joy,  neither  was  he  wanting  in  love 
or  gratitude  to  his  brother ;  but  his  pride  was  not  completely 
satisfied. 

"I  am  the  elder,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "and  a  man  of 
literature,  and  yet  am  I  obliged  to  my  younger  brother,  an 
ilHterate  man."  Here  he  suppressed  every  thought  which  could 
be  a  reproach  to  that  brother.  But  there  remained  an  object 
of  his  former  contempt,  now  become  even  detestable  to  him  ; 
ungrateful  man.  The  very  agent  of  his  elevation  was  now  so 
odious  to  him,  that  he  could  not  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  friendly 
violin  without  instant  emotions  of  disgust. 

In  vain  woulj^  Henry,  at  times,  endeavour  to  subdue  his 
haughtiness  by  a  tune  on  this  wonderful  machine.  "You  know 
I  have  no  ear,"  William  would  sternly  say,  in  recompense  for 
one  of  Henry's  best  solos.  Yet  was  William  enraged  at  Henry's 
answer,  when,  after  taking  him  to  hear  him  preach,  he  asked  him, 
"how  he  liked  his  sermon,"  and  Henry  modestly  replied  (in  the 
technical  phrase  of  his  profession),  "You  know,  brother,  I  have 
no  ear." 

Henry's  renown  in  his  profession  daily  increased ;  and,  with 
his  fame,  his  friends.  Possessing  the  virtues  of  humility  and 
charity  far  above  William,  who  was  the  professed  teacher  of  those 
virtues,  his  reverend  brother's  disrespect  for  his  vocation  never 
once  made  him  relax  for  a  moment  in  his  anxiety  to  gain  him 
advancement  in  the  Church.  In  the  course  of  a  few  years,  and 
in  consequence  of  many  fortuitous  circumstances,  he  had  the 
gratification  of  procuring  for  him  the  appointment  to  a  deanery  ; 
and  thus  at  once  placed  between  them  an  insurmountable  barrier 
to  all  friendship,  that  was  not  the  effect  of  condescension  on  the 
part  of  the  dean. 

William  would  now  begin  seriously  to  remonstrate  with  his 
brother  "upon  his  useless  occupation,"  and  would  intimate 
"  the  degradation  it  was  to  him  to  hear  his  frivolous  talent  spoken 
of  in  all  companies."  Henry  beHeved  his  brother  to  be  much 
wiser  than  himself,  and  suffered  shame  that  he  was  not  more 
worthy  of  such  a  relation.  To  console  himself  for  the  familiar 
friend,  whom  he  now  perceived  he  had  entirely  lost,  he  searched 
for  one  of  a  softer  nature  —  he  married. 


NATURE  AND   ART  713 

CHAPTER   VI 

As  Henry  despaired  of  receiving  his  brother's  approbation 
of  his  choice,  he  never  mentioned  the  event  to  him.  But  WilHam, 
being  told  of  it  by  a  third  person,  inquired  of  Henry,  who  con- 
firmed the  truth  of  the  intelhgence,  and  acknowledged,  that,  in 
taking  a  wife,  his  sole  view  had  been  to  obtain  a  kind  companion 
and  friend,  who  would  bear  with  his  faihngs  and  know  how  to 
esteem  his  few  quahfications  ;  therefore,  he  had  chosen  one  of  his 
own  rank  in  hfe,  and  who,  having  a  taste  for  music,  and,  as  well 
as  hhnself,  an  obligation  to  the  art " 

"And  is  it  possible,"  cried  the  dean,  "that  what  has  been 
hinted  to  me  is  true?  Is  it  possible  that  you  have  married  a 
public  singer?" 

"She  is  as  good  as  myself,"  returned  Henry.  "I  did  not 
wish  her  to  be  better,  for  fear  she  should  despise  me." 

"As  to  despise,"  answered  the  dean,  "Heaven  forbid  that  we 
should  despise  anyone,  that  would  be  acting  unlike  a  Christian ; 
but  do  you  imagine  I  can  ever  introduce  her  to  my  intended 
wife,  who  is  a  woman  of  family?" 

Henry  had  received  in  his  life  many  insults  from  his  brother ; 
but,  as  he  was  not  a  vain  man,  he  generally  thought  his  brother 
in  the  right,  and  consequently  submitted  with  patience ;  but, 
though  he  had  little  self-love,  he  had  for  his  wife  an  unbounded 
affection.  On  the  present  occasion,  therefore,  he  began  to  raise 
his  voice,  and  even  (in  the  coarse  expression  of  clownish  anger) 
to  Hft  his  hand ;  but  the  sudden  and  affecting  recollection  of 
what  he  had  done  for  the  dean  —  of  the  pains,  the  toils,  the  hopes, 
and  the  fears  he  had  experienced  when  soliciting  his  preferment  — 
this  recollection  overpowered  his  speech,  weakened  his  arm,  and 
deprived  him  of  every  active  force,  but  that  of  flying  out  of  his 
brother's  house  (in  which  they  then  were)  as  swift  as  lightning, 
while  the  dean  sat  proudly  contemplating  "that  he  had  done 
his  duty." 

For  several  days  Henry  did  not  call,  as  was  his  custom,  to  see 
his  brother.  William's  marriage  drew  near,  and  he  sent  a 
formal  card  to  invite  him  on  that  day ;  but  not  having  had  the 
condescension  to  name  his  sister-in-law  in  the  invitation,  Henry 


714 


MRS.   ELIZABETH  INCHBALD 


thought  proper  not  to  accept  it,  and  the  joyful  event  was  cele- 
brated without  his  presence.  But  the  ardour  of  the  bridegroom 
was  not  so  vehement  as  to  overcome  every  other  sensation  —  he 
missed  his  brother.  That  heart-felt  cheerfulness  with  which 
Henry  had  ever  given  him  joy  upon  every  happy  occasion  —  even 
amidst  all  the  pohter  congratulations  of  his  other  friends  — 
seemed  to  the  dean  mournfully  wanting.  This  derogation  from 
his  felicity  he  was  resolved  to  resent ;  and  for  a  whole  year  these 
brothers,  whom  adversity  had  entwined  closely  together,  pros- 
perity separated. 

Though  Henry,  on  his  marriage,  paid  so  much  attention  to  his 
brother's  prejudices  as  to  take  his  wife  from  her  public  em- 
ployment, this  had  not  so  entirely  removed  the  scruples  of 
WiUiam  as  to  permit  him  to  think  her  a  worthy  companion  for 
Lady  Clementina,  the  daughter  of  a  poor  Scotch  earl,  whom  he 
had  chosen  merely  that  he  might  be  proud  of  her  family,  and, 
in  return,  suffer  that  family  to  be  ashamed  of  his. 

If  Henry's  wife  were  not  fit  company  for  Lady  Clementina, 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  she  was  company  for  angels.  :  She  died 
within  the  first  year  of  her  marriage,  a  faithful,  an  affection- 
ate wife,  and  a  mother. 

When  WiUiam  heard  of  her  death,  he  felt  a  sudden  shock,  and 
a  kind  of  fleeting  thought  glanced  across  his  mind,  that 

"Had  he  known  she  had  been  so  near  her  dissolution,  she 
might  have  been  introduced  to  Lady  Clementina,  and  he  himself 
would  have  called  her  sister." 

That  is  (if  he  had  defined  his  fleeting  idea),  "They  would  have 
had  no  objection  to  have  met  this  poor  woman  for  the  last  time, 
and  would  have  descended  to  the  familiarity  of  kindred,  in  order 
to  have  wished  her  a  good  journey  to  the  other  world." 

Or,  is  there  in  death  something  which  so  raises  the  abjectness 
of  the  poor,  that,  on  their  approach  to  its  sheltering  abode,  the 
arrogant  believer  feels  the  equality  he  had  before  denied,  and 
trembles  ? 

CHAPTER   VII 

The  wife  of  Henry  had  been  dead  near  six  weeks  before  the 
dean  heard  the  news.     A  month  then  elapsed  in  thoughts  by 


NATURE  AND   ART  715 

himself,  and  consultations  with  Lady  Clementina,  how  he  should 
conduct  himself  on  this  occurrence.     Her  advice  was, 

"That,  as  Henry  was  the  younger,  and  by  their  stations,  in 
every  sense  the  dean's  inferior,  Henry  ought  first  to  make  over- 
tures of  reconciliation." 

The  dean  answered,  ''He  had  no  doubt  of  his  brother's  good 
will  to  him,  but  that  he  had  reason  to  think,  from  the  knowledge 
of  his  temper,  he  would  be  more  likely  to  come  to  him  upon  an 
occasion  to  bestow  comfort,  than  to  receive  it.  For  instance,  if 
I  had  suffered  the  misfortune  of  losing  your  ladyship,  my  brother, 
I  have  no  doubt,  would  have  forgotten  his  resentment,  and " 

She  was  offended  that  the  loss  of  the  vulgar  wife  of  Henry 
should  be  compared  to  the  loss  of  her  —  she  lamented  her  indis- 
cretion in  forming  an  alliance  with  a  family  of  no  rank,  and 
implored  the  dean  to  wait  till  his  brother  should  make  some 
concession  to  him,  before  he  renewed  the  acquaintance. 

Though  Lady  Clementina  had  mentioned  on  this  occasion 
her  indiscretion,  she  was  of  a  prudent  age  —  she  was  near  forty  — 
yet,  possessing  rather  a  handsome  face  and  person,  she  would 
not  have  impressed  the  spectator  with  a  supposition  that  she 
was  near  so  old  had  she  not  constantly  attempted  to  appear 
much  younger.  Her  dress  was  fantastically  fashionable,  her 
manners  affected  all  the  various  passions  of  youth,  and  her  con- 
versation was  perpetually  embellished  with  accusations  against 
her  own  "heedlessness,  thoughtlessness,  carelessness,  and 
childishness." 

There  is,  perhaps  in  each  individual,  one  parent  motive  to 
every  action,  good  or  bad.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  was  evident, 
that  with  Lady  Clementina,  all  she  said  or  did,  all  she  thought  or 
looked,  had  but  one  foundation  —  vanity.  If  she  were  nice,  or 
if  she  were  negligent,  vanity  was  the  cause  of  both  ;  for  she  would 
contemplate  with  the  highest  degree  of  self-complacency,  "What 
such-a-one  would  say  of  her  elegant  preciseness,  or  what  such-a- 
one  would  think  of  her  interesting  neglect." 

If  she  complained  she  was  ill,  it  was  with  the  certainty  that 
her  languor  would  be  admired :  if  she  boasted  she  was  well,  it 
was  that  the  spectator  might  admire  her  glowing  health  :  if 
she  laughed,  it  was  because  she  thought  it  made  her  look  pretty  : 


7i6  MRS.   ELIZABETH  INCHBALD 

if  she  cried,  it  was  because  she  thought  it  made  her  look  prettier 
still.  If  she  scolded  her  servants,  it  was  from  vanity,  to  show  her 
knowledge  superior  to  theirs :  and  she  was  kind  to  them  from 
the  same  motive,  that  her  benevolence  might  excite  their  ad- 
miration. Forward  and  impertinent  in  the  company  of  her 
equals,  from  the  vanity  of  supposing  herself  above  them,  she  was 
bashful  even  to  shamefacedness  in  the  presence  of  her  superiors, 
because  her  vanity  told  her  she  engrossed  all  their  observation. 
Through  vanity  she  had  no  memory ;  for  she  constantly  forgot 
everything  she  heard  others  say,  from  the  minute  attention  which 
she  paid  to  everything  she  said  herself. 

She  had  become  an  old  maid  from  vanity,  beHeving  no  offer 
she  received  worthy  of  her  deserts ;  and  when  her  power  of  farther 
conquest  began  to  be  doubted,  she  married  from  vanity,  to 
repair  the  character  of  her  fading  charms.  In  a  word,  her  vanity 
was  of  that  magnitude,  that  she  had  no  conjecture  but  that  she 
was  humble  in  her  own  opinion ;  and  it  would  have  been  impos- 
sible to  have  convinced  her  that  she  thought  well  of  herself, 
because  she  thought  so  well,  as  to  be  assured  that  her  own 
thoughts  undervalued  her. 

CHAPTER   VIII 

That,  which  in  a  weak  woman  is  called  vanity,  in  a  man  of 
sense  is  termed  pride.  Make  one  a  degree  stronger,  or  the  other 
a  degree  weaker,  and  the  dean  and  his  wife  were  infected  with 
the  self-same  folly.  Yet,  let  not  the  reader  suppose  that  this 
failing  (however  despicable)  had  erased  from  either  bosom  all 
traces  of  humanity.  They  are  human  creatures  who  are  meant 
to  be  portrayed  in  this  little  book :  and  where  is  the  human 
creature  who  has  not  some  good  qualities  to  soften,  if  not  to 
counterbalance,  his  bad  ones  ? 

The  dean,  with  all  his  pride,  could  not  wholly  forget  his  brother, 
nor  eradicate  from  his  remembrance  the  friend  that  he  had  been 
to  him  :  he  resolved,  therefore,  in  spite  of  his  wife's  advice,  to 
make  him  some  overture,  which  he  had  no  doubt  Henry's  good- 
nature would  instantly  accept.  The  more  he  became  acquainted 
with  all  the  vain  and  sclhsh  propensities  of  Lady  Clementina,  the 


NATURE  AND   ART  717 

more  he  felt  a  returning  affection  for  his  brother  :  but  little 
did  he  suspect  how  much  he  loved  him,  till  (after  sending  to 
various  places  to  inquire  for  him)  he  learned  —  that  on  his 
wife's  decease,  unable  to  support  her  loss  in  the  surrounding 
scene,  Henry  had  taken  the  child  she  brought  him  in  his  arms, 
shaken  hands  with  all  his  former  friends  —  passing  over  his 
brother  in  the  number  —  and  set  sail  in  a  vessel  bound  f<pr  Africa, 
with  a  party  of  Portuguese  and  some  few  EngHsh  adventurers, 
to  people  there  the  uninhabited  part  of  an  extensive  island. 

This  was  a  resolution,  in  Henry's  circumstances,  worthy  a 
mind  of  singular  sensibility  :  but  William  had  not  discerned,  till 
then,  that  every  act  of  Henry's  was  of  the  same  description ; 
and  more  than  all,  his  every  act  towards  him.  He  staggered 
when  he  heard  the  tidings ;  at  first  thought  them  untrue ;  but 
quickly  recollected,  that  Henry  was  capable  of  surprising  deeds  ! 
He  recollected  with  a  force  which  gave  him  torture,  the  benevo- 
lence his  brother  had  ever  shown  to  him  — ■  the  favours  he  had 
heaped  upon  him  —  the  insults  he  had  patiently  endured  in 
requital  ! 

In  the  first  emotion,  which  this  intelligence  gave  the  dean, 
he  forgot  the  dignity  of  his  walk  and  gesture:  he  ran  with 
frantic  enthusiasm  to  every  corner  of  his  deanery  where  the  least 
vestige  of  what  belonged  to  Henry  remained  —  he  pressed  close 
to  his  breast,  with  tender  agony,  a  coat  of  his,  which  by  accident 
had  been  left  there' —  he  kissed  and  wept  over  a  walking-stick 
which  Henry  once  had  given  him  —  he  even  took  up  with  delight 
a  music  book  of  his  brother's  —  nor  would  his  poor  violin  have 
then  incited  anger. 

When  his  grief  became  more  calm,  he  sat  in  deep  and  melan- 
choly meditation,  calling  to  mind  when  and  where  he  saw  his 
brother  last.  The  recollection  gave  him  fresh  cause  of  regret. 
He  remembered  they  had  parted  on  his  refusing  to  suffer  Lady 
Clementina  to  admit  the  acquaintance  of  Henry's  wife.  Both 
Henry  and  his  wife  he  now  contemplated  beyond  the  reach  of 
his  pride ;  and  he  felt  the  meanness  of  his  former  and  the  imbe- 
ciHty  of  his  future  haughtiness  towards  them. 

To  add  to  his  self-reproaches,  his  tormented  memory  presented 
to  him  the  exact  countenance  of  his  brother  at  their  last  interview, 


7i8  MRS.   ELIZABETH  INCHBALD 

as  it  changed,  while  he  censured  his  marriage,  and  treated  with 
disrespect  the  object  of  his  conjugal  affection.  He  remembered 
the  anger  repressed,  the  tear  bursting  forth,  and  the  last  ghmpse 
he  had  of  him,  as  he  left  his  presence,  most  likely  for  ever. 

In  vain  he  now  wished  that  he  had  followed  him  to  the  door  — 
that  he  had  once  shaken  hands  and  owned  his  obligations  to  him 
before  they  had  parted.  In  vain  he  wished  too,  that,  in  this 
extreme  agony  of  his  mind,  he  had  such  a  friend  to  comfort  him, 
as  Henry  had  ever  proved. 

CHAPTER  IX 

The  avocations  of  an  elevated  life  erase  the  deepest  impressions. 
The  dean  in  a  few  months  recovered  from  those  which  his 
brother's  departure  first  made  upon  him  :  and  he  would  now 
at  times  even  condemn,  in  anger,  Henry's  having  so  hastily 
abandoned  him  and  his  native  country,  in  resentment,  as  he 
conceived,  of  a  few  misfortunes  which  his  usual  fortitude  should 
have  taught  him  to  have  borne.  Yet  was  he  still  desirous  of 
his  return,  and  wrote  two  or  three  letters  expressive  of  his  wish, 
which  he  anxiously  endeavoured  should  reach  him.  But  many 
years  having  elapsed  without  any  intelligence  from  him,  and  a  re- 
port having  arrived  that  he,  and  all  the  party  with  whom  he 
went,  were  slain  by  the  savage  inhabitants  of  the  island,  William's 
despair  of  seeing  his  brother  again  caused  the  desire  to  diminish ; 
while  attention  and  affection  to  a  still  nearer  and  dearer  rela- 
tion than  Henry  had  ever  been  to  him,  now  chiefly  engaged 
his  mind. 

Lady  Clementina  had  brought  him  a  son,  on  whom  from  his 
infancy,  he  doated  — ■  and  the  boy,  in  riper  years,  possessing  a 
handsome  person  and  evincing  a  quickness  of  parts,  gratified 
the  father's  darling  passion,  pride,  as  well  as  the  mother's  vanity. 

The  dean  had,  beside  this  child,  a  domestic  comfort  highly 
gratifying  to  his  ambition  :  the  bishop  of  ****  became  intimately 
acquainted  with  him  soon  after  his  marriage,  and  from  his  daily 
visits  had  become,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  the  family.  This  was 
much  honour  to  the  dean,  not  only  as  the  bishop  was  his  superior 
in  the  Church,  but  was  of  that  part  of  the  bench  whose  blood 


NATURE  AND   ART 


719 


is  ennobled  by  a  race  of  ancestors,  and  to  which  all  wisdom 
on  the  plebeian  side  crouches  in  humble  respect. 

Year  after  year  rolled  on  in  pride  and  grandeur ;  the  bishop 
and  the  dean  passing  their  time  in  attending  levees  and  in  talking 
politics ;  Lady  Clementina  passing  hers  in  attending  routs  and 
in  talking  of  herself,  till  the  son  arrived  at  the  age  of  thirteen. 

Young  Wilham  passed  his  time,  from  morning  till  night,  with 
persons  who  taught  him  to  walk,  to  ride,  to  talk,  to  think  like  a 
man  —  a  foohsh  man,  instead  of  a  wise  child,  as  nature  designed 
him  to  be. 

This  unfortunate  youth  was  never  permitted  to  have  one  con- 
ception of  his  own  —  all  were  taught  him  —  he  was  never  once 
asked,  "What  he  thought;"  but  men  were  paid  to  tell  "how  to 
think."  He  was  taught  to  revere  such  and  such  persons,  however 
unworthy  of  his  reverence ;  to  believe  such  and  such  things, 
however  unworthy  of  his  credit :  and  to  act  so  and  so,  on  such 
and  such  occasions,  however  unworthy  of  his  feelings. 

Such  were  the  lessons  of  the  tutors  assigned  him  by  his  father  — 
those  masters  whom  his  mother  gave  him  did  him  less  mischief ; 
for  though  they  distorted  his  limbs  and  made  his  manners  effem- 
inate, they  did  not  interfere  beyond  the  body. 

Mr.  Norwynne  (the  family  name  of  his  father,  and  though 
but  a  school-boy,  he  was  called  Mister)  could  talk  on  history,  on 
pohtics,  and  on  rehgion ;  surprisingly  to  all  who  never  listened 
to  a  parrot  or  magpie  —  for  he  merely  repeated  what  had  been 
told  to  him  without  one  reflection  upon  the  sense  or  probability 
of  his  report.  He  had  been  praised  for  his  memory ;  and  to 
continue  that  praise,  he  was  so  anxious  to  retain  every 
sentence  he  had  heard,  or  he  had  read,  that  the  poor  creature 
had  no  time  for  one  native  idea,  but  could  only  re-deliver  his 
tutors'  lessons  to  his  father,  and  his  father's  to  his  tutors. 
But,  whatever  he  said  or  did,  was  the  admiration  of  all 
who  came  to  the  house  of  the  dean,  and  who  knew  he  was  an 
only  child.  Indeed,  considering  the  labour  that  was  taken  to 
spoil  him,  he  was  rather  a  commendable  youth ;  for,  with  the 
pedantic  folly  of  his  teachers,  the  blind  affection  of  his  father  and 
mother,  the  obsequiousness  of  the  servants,  and  flattery  of  the 
visitors,  it  was  some  credit  to  him  that  he  was  not  an  idiot,  or  a 


720  MRS.   ELIZABETH  INCHBALD 

brute  — •  though  when  he  miitated  the  manners  of  a  man,  he  had 
something  of  the  latter  in  his  appearance ;  for  he  would  grin 
and  bow  to  a  lady,  catch  her  fan  in  haste  when  it  fell,  and  hand 
her  to  her  coach,  as  thoroughly  void  of  all  the  sentiment  which 
gives  grace  to  such  tricks,  as  a  monkey. 

CHAPTER  X 

One  morning  in  winter,  just  as  the  dean,  his  wife,  and  darling 
child,  had  finished  their  breakfast  at  their  house  in  London,  a 
servant  brought  in  a  letter  to  his  master,  and  said  "the  man 
waited  for  an  answer." 

"Who  is  the  man?"  cried  the  dean,  with  all  that  terrifying 
dignity  with  which  he  never  failed  to  address  his  inferiors,  es- 
pecially such  as  waited  on  his  person. 

The  servant  replied  with  a  servility  of  tone  equal  to  the  haughty 
one  of  his  master,  "he  did  not  know ;  but  that  the  man  looked  like 
a  sailor,  and  had  a  boy  with  him." 

"A  begging  letter,  no  doubt,"  cried  Lady  Clementina. 

"Take  it  back,"  said  the  dean,  "and  bid  him  send  up  word 
who  he  is,  and  what  is  his  errand." 

The  servant  went;  and  returning  said,  "He  comes  from  on 
board  a  ship  ;  his  captain  sent  him,  and  his  errand  is,  he  believes, 
to  leave  a  boy  he  has  brought  with  him." 

"A  boy  !"  cried  the  dean:  "what  have  I  to  do  with  a  boy? 
I  expect  no  boy.     What  boy  ?     What  age?" 

"He  looks  about  twelve  or  thirteen,"  replied  the  servant. 

"He  is  mistaken  in  the  house,"  said  the  dean.  "Let  me 
look  at  the  letter  again." 

He  did  look  at  it,  and  saw  plainly  it  was  directed  to  himself. 
Upon  a  second  glance,  he  had  so  perfect  a  recollection  of  the  hand, 
as  to  open  it  instantaneously;  and,  after  ordering  the  servant 
to  withdraw,  he  read  the  following :  — 

"ZocoTORA  Island,  April  6. 
"My  Dear  Brother  William,  —  It  is  a  long  time  since  we 
have  seen  one  another ;    but  I  hope  not  so  long,  that  you  have 
quite  forgotten  the  many  happy  days  we  once  passed  together. 


NATURE   AND   ART  721 

'*I  did  not  take  my  leave  of  you  when  I  left  England,  because 
it  would  have  been  too  much  for  me.  I  had  met  with  a  great 
many  sorrows  just  at  that  time ;  one  of  which  was,  the  mis- 
fortune of  losing  the  use  of  my  right  hand  by  a  fall  from  my  horse, 
which  accident  robbed  me  of  most  of  my  friends ;  for  I  could  no 
longer  entertain  them  with  my  performance  as  I  used  to  do,  and 
so  I  was  ashamed  to  see  them  or  you ;  and  that  was  the  reason  I 
came  hither  to  try  my  fortune  with  some  other  adventurers. 

"You  have,  I  suppose,  heard  that  the  savages  of  the  island 
put  our  whole  party  to  death.  But  it  was  my  chance  to  escape 
their  cruelty.  I  was  heart-broken  for  my  comrades ;  yet  upon 
the  whole,  I  do  not  know  that  the  savages  were  much  to  blame  — 
we  had  no  business  to  invade  their  territories  !  and  if  they  had 
invaded  England,  we  should  have  done  the  same  by  them.  My 
life  was  spared,  because,  having  gained  some  little  strength  in 
my  hand  during  the  voyage,  I  pleased  their  king  when  I  arrived 
there  with  playing  on  my  violin. 

"They  spared  my  child  too,  in  pity  to  my  lamentations,  when 
they  were  going  to  put  him  to  death.  Now,  dear  brother,  befofe 
I  say  any  more  to  you  concerning  my  child,  I  will  first  ask  your 
pardon  for  any  offence  I  may  have  ever  given  you  in  all  the  time 
we  lived  so  long  together.  I  know  you  have  often  found  fault 
with  me,  and  I  dare  say  I  have  been  very  often  to  blame ;  but 
I  here  solemnly  declare  that  I  never  did  anything  purposely  to 
offend  you,  but  mostly,  all  I  could  to  oblige  you  —  and  I  can 
safely  declare  that  I  never  bore  you  above  a  quarter  of  an  hour's 
resentment  for  anything  you  might  say  to  me  which  I  thought 
harsh. 

"Now,  dear  Wilham,  after  being  in  this  island  eleven  years, 
the  weakness  in  my  hand  has  unfortunately  returned ;  and  yet 
there  being  no  appearance  of  complaint,  the  uninformed  islanders 
think  it  is  all  my  obstinacy,  and  that  I  will  not  entertain  them 
with  my  music,  which  makes  me  say  that  I  cannot;  and  they  have 
imprisoned  me,  and  threaten  to  put  my  son  to  death  if  I  persist  in 
my  stubbornness  any  longer. 

"The  anguish  I  feel  in  my  mind  takes  away  all  hope  of  the 
recovery  of  strength  in  my  hand ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  but  that 
they  intend  in  a  few  days  to  put  their  horrid  threat  into  execution. 


722  MRS.    ELIZABETH   INCHBALD 

''Therefore,  dear  brother  WiUiam,  hearing  in  my  prison  of  a 
most  uncommon  circumstance,  which  is,  that  an  Enghsh  vessel 
is  lying  at  a  small  distance  from  the  island,  I  have  entrusted  a 
faithful  negro  to  take  my  child  to  the  ship,  and  dehver  him  to 
the  captain,  with  a  request  that  he  may  be  sent  (with  this  letter) 
to  you  on  the  ship's  arrival  in  England. 

"Now  my  dear,  dear  brother  WilUam,  in  case  the  poor  boy 
should  Hve  to  come  to  you,  I  have  no  doubt  but  you  will  receive 
him  ;  yet  excuse  a  poor,  fond  father,  if  I  say  a  word  or  two  which 
I  hope  may  prove  in  his  favour. 

"Pray,  my  dear  brother,  do  not  think  it  the  child's  fault,  but 
mine,  that  you  will  find  him  so  ignorant  —  he  has  always  shown 
a  quickness  and  a  willingness  to  learn,  and  would,  I  dare  say, 
if  he  had  been  brought  up  under  your  care,  have  been  by  this 
time  a  good  scholar,  but  you  know  I  am  no  scholar  myself. 
Besides,  not  having  any  books  here,  I  have  only  been  able  to 
teach  my  child  by  talking  to  him,  and  in  all  my  conversations 
with  him  I  have  never  taken  much  pains  to  instruct  him  in 
the  manners  of  my  own  country ;  thinking,  that  if  ever  he  went 
over,  he  would  learn  them  soon  enough ;  and  if  he  never  did  go 
over,  that  it  would  be  as  well  he  knew  nothing  about  them. 

"I  have  kept  him  also  from  the  knowledge  of  everything  which 
I  have  thought  pernicious  in  the  conduct  of  the  savages,  except 
that  I  have  now  and  then  pointed  out  a  few  of  their  faults,  in 
order  to  give  him  a  true  conception  and  a  proper  horror  of  them. 
At  the  same  time  I  have  taught  him  to  love,  and  to  do  good  to 
his  neighbour,  whoever  that  neighbour  may  be,  and  whatever 
may  be  his  faihngs.  Falsehood  of  every  kind  I  included  in 
this  precept  as  forbidden,  for  no  one  can  love  his  neighbour  and 
deceive  him. 

"I  have  instructed  him  too,  to  hold  in  contempt  all  frivolous 
vanity,  and  all  those  indulgences  which  he  was  never  likely  to 
obtain.  He  has  learnt  all  that  I  have  undertaken  to  teach  him  ; 
but  I  am  afraid  you  will  yet  think  he  has  learned  too  little. 

"Your  wife,  I  fear,  will  be  offended  at  his  want  of  politeness, 
and  perhaps  proper  respect  for  a  person  of  her  rank :  but  indeed 
he  is  very  tractable,  and  can,  without  severity,  be  amended  of 
all  his  faults ;   and  though  you  will  lind  he  has  many,  yet,  pray, 


NATURE  AND   ART  723 

my  dear  brother  William,  call  to  mind  he  has  been  a  dutiful 
and  an  affectionate  child  to  me ;  and  that  had  it  pleased  Heaven 
we  had  lived  together  for  many  years  to  come,  I  verily  believe 
I  should  never  have  experienced  one  mark  of  his  disobedience. 

"Farewell  for  ever,  my  dear,  dear  brother  William  —  and  if 
my  poor,  kind,  affectionate  child  should  live  to  bring  you  this 
letter,  sometimes  speak  to  him  of  me ;  and  let  him  know, 
that  for  twelve  years  he  was  my  sole  comfort ;  and  that,  when  I 
sent  him  from  me,  in  order  to  save  his  life,  I  laid  down  my  head 
upon  the  floor  of  the  cell  in  which  I  was  confined,  and  prayed 
that  Heaven  might  end  my  days  before  the  morning." 


This  was  the  conclusion  of  the  letter,  except  four  or  five  lines 
which  (with  his  name)  were  so  much  blotted,  apparently  with 
tears,  that  they  were  illegible. 

CHAPTER  XI 

While  the  dean  was  reading  to  himself  this  letter,  his  counte- 
nance frequently  changed,  and  once  or  twice  the  tears  streamed 
from  his  eyes.     When  it  was  finished,  he  exclaimed, 

"My  brother  has  sent  his  child  to  me,  and  I  will  be  a  parent 
to  him."  He  was  rushing  towards  the  door,  when  Lady  Clemen- 
tina stopped  him. 

"Is  it  proper,  do  you  think,  Mr.  Dean,  that  all  the  servants 
in  the  house  should  be  witnesses  to  your  meeting  with  your 
brother  and  your  nephew  in  the  state  in  which  they  must  be  at 
present?     Send  for  them  into  a  private  apartment." 

"  My  brother  ! "  cried  the  dean ;  "  oh  !  that  it  were  my  brother  ! 
The  man  is  merely  a  person  from  the  ship,  who  has  conducted  his 
child  hither." 

The  bell  was  rung,  money  was  sent  to  the  man,  and  orders 
given  that  the  boy  should  be  shown  up  immediately. 

The  door  opened  —  and  the  son  of  his  brother  Henry,  of  his 
benefactor,  entered. 

The  habit  he  had  on  when  he  left  his  father,  having  been  of 


724 


MRS.   ELIZABETH   INCHBALD 


slight  texture,  was  worn  out  by  the  length  of  the  voyage,  and 
he  was  in  the  dress  of  a  sailor-boy.  Though  about  the  same 
age  with  his  cousin,  he  was  something  taller  :  and  though  a  strong 
family  resemblance  appeared  between  the  two  youths,  he  was 
handsomer  than  William ;  and  from  a  simplicity  spread  over 
his  countenance,  a  quick  impatience  in  his  eye  —  which  denoted 
anxious  curiosity,  and  childish  surprise  at  every  new  object  which 
presented  itself  —  he  appeared  younger  than  his  well-informed 
and  well-bred  cousin. 

He  walked  into  the  room,  not  with  a  dictated  obeisance,  but 
with  a  hurrying  step,  a  half  pleased,  yet  a  half  frightened  look, 
an  instantaneous  survey  of  every  person  present ;  not  as  de- 
manding "what  they  thought  of  him,"  but  expressing  almost  as 
plainly  as  in  direct  words,  "what  he  thought  of  them."  For 
all  alarm  in  respect  to  his  safety  and  reception  seemed  now 
wholly  forgotten,  in  the  curiosity  which  the  sudden  sight  of 
strangers  such  as  he  had  never  seen  in  his  life  before,  excited : 
and  as  to  himself,  he  did  not  appear  to  know  there  was  such  a 
person  existing :  his  whole  faculties  were  absorbed  in  others. 

The  dean's  reception  of  him  did  honour  to  his  sensibility  and 
his  gratitude  to  his  brother.  After  the  first  affectionate  gaze,  he 
ran  to  him,  took  him  in  his  arms,  sat  down,  drew  him  to  him, 
held  him  between  his  knees,  and  repeatedly  exclaimed,  "I  will 
repay  to  you  all  I  owe  to  your  father." 

The  boy,  in  return,  hugged  the  dean  round  the  neck,  kissed 
him,  and  exclaimed, 

"Oh  !  you  are  my  father  —  you  have  just  such  eyes,  and  such 
a  forehead  —  indeed  you  would  be  almost  the  same  as  he,  if  it 
were  not  for  that  great  white  thing  which  grows  upon  your 
head!" 

Let  the  reader  understand,  that  the  dean,  fondly  attached 
to  every  ornament  of  his  dignified  function,  was  never 
seen  (unless  caught  in  bed)  without  an  enormous  wig.  With  this 
young  Henry  was  enormously  struck ;  having  never  seen  so 
unbecoming  a  decoration,  either  in  the  savage  island  from 
whence  he  came,  or  on  board  the  vessel  in  which  he  sailed. 

"Do  you  imagine,"  cried  his  uncle,  laying  his  hand  gently  on 
the  reverend  habiliment,  "that  this  grows?" 


NATURE   AND   ART  725 

"What  is  on  my  head  grows,"  said  young  Henry,  "and  so  does 
that  which  is  upon  my  father's." 

"But  now  you  are  come  to  Europe,  Henry,  you  will  see  many 
persons  with  such  things  as  these,  which  they  put  on  and  take 
off." 

"Why  do  you  wear  such  things  ?  " 

"As  a  distinction  between  us  and  inferior  people:  they  are 
worn  to  give  an  importance  to  the  wearer." 

"That's  just  as  the  savages  do;  they  hang  brass  nails,  wire, 
buttons,  and  entrails  of  beasts  all  over  them,  to  give  them  im- 
portance." 

The  dean  now  led  his  nephew  to  Lady  Clementina,  and  told 
him,  "She  was  his  aunt,  to  whom  he  must  behave  with  the  ut- 
most respect." 

"I  will,  I  will,"  he  replied,  "for  she,  I  see,  is  a  person  of  im- 
portance too ;  she  has,  very  nearly,  such  a  white  thing  upon  her 
head  as  you  have  !" 

His  aunt  had  not  yet  fixed  in  what  manner  it  would  be  advis- 
able to  behave ;  whether  with  intimidating  grandeur,  or  with 
amiable  tenderness.  While  she  was  hesitating  between  both, 
she  felt  a  kind  of  jealous  apprehension  that  her  son  was  not  so 
engaging  either  in  his  person  or  address  as  his  cousin ;  and  there- 
fore she  said, 

"I  hope.  Dean,  the  arrival  of  this  child  will  give  you  a  still 
higher  sense  of  the  happiness  we  enjoy  in  our  own.  What  an 
instructive  contrast  between  the  manners  of  the  one  and  of  the 
other!" 

"It  is  not  the  child's  fault,"  returned  the  dean,  "that  he  is 
not  so  elegant  in  his  manners  as  his  cousin.  Had  Wilham  been 
bred  in  the  same  place,  he  would  have  been  as  unpolished  as  this 
boy." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  young  William  with  a  formal 
bow  and  a  sarcastic  smile,  "I  assure  you,  several  of  my  tutors 
have  told  me,  that  I  appear  to  know  many  things  as  it  were  by 
instinct." 

Young  Henry  fixed  his  eyes  upon  his  cousin,  while,  with 
steady  self-complacency,  he  dehvered  this  speech,  and  no  sooner 
was  it  concluded  than  Henry  cried  out  in  a  kind  of  wonder. 


726  MRS.   ELIZABETH  INCHBALD 

"A  little  man  !  as  I  am  alive,  a  little  man  !  I  did  not  know 
there  were  such  little  men  in  this  country  !  I  never  saw  one  in 
my  life  before  !" 

"This  is  a  boy,"  said  the  dean;  ''  a  boy  not  older  than  your- 
self." 

He  put  their  hands  together,  and  William  gravely  shook  hands 
with  his  cousin. 

"It  is  a  man,"  continued  young  Henry;  then  stroked  his 
cousin's  chin.     "No,  no,  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  or  not." 

"I  tell  you  again,"  said  the  dean,  "he  is  a  boy  of  your  own 
age;  you  and  he  are  cousins,  for  I  am  his  father." 

"How  can  that  be ? "  said  young  Henry.    "He  called  you  Sir.'" 

"In  this  country,"  said  the  dean,  "polite  children  do  not  call 
their  parents /a/Z/er  and  mother.''^ 

"Then  don't  they  sometimes  forget  to  love  them  as  such?" 
asked  Henry. 

CHAPTER   XIII 

It  was  to  be  lamented  that  when  young  Henry  had  been  several 
months  in  England,  had  been  taught  to  read,  and  had,  of  course, 
in  the  society  in  which  he  lived,  seen  much  of  the  enlightened 
world,  yet  the  natural  expectation  of  his  improvement  was  by 
no  means  answered. 

Notwithstanding  the  sensibility,  which  upon  various  occasions 
he  manifested  in  the  most  captivating  degree,  notwithstanding 
the  seeming  gentleness  of  his  nature  upon  all  occasions,  there 
now  appeared,  in  most  of  his  inquiries  and  remarks,  a  something 
which  demonstrated  either  a  stupid  or  troublesome  disposition ; 
either  dulncss  of  conception,  or  an  obstinacy  of  perseverance  in 
comments  and  in  arguments  which  were  glaringly  false. 

Observing  his  uncle  one  day  offended  with  his  coachman,  and 
hearing  him  say  to  him  in  a  very  angry  tone,  "You  shall  never 
drive  me  again"  — 

The  moment  the  man  quitted  the  room,  Henry  (with  his  eyes 
fixed  in  the  deepest  contemplation)  repeated  live  or  six  times,  in  a 
half  whisper  to  himself, 


NATURE   AND   ART  727 

"You  shall  never  drive  me  a  gain." 

"You  shall  never  drive  me  again." 

The  dean  at  last  called  to  him,  "What  do  you  mean  by  thus 
repeating  my  words  ?  " 

"I  am  trying  to  find  out  what  you  meant,"  said  Henry. 

"What!  don't  you  know?"  cried  his  enlightened  cousin. 
"Richard  is  turned  away ;  he  is  never  to  get  upon  our  coach-box 
again,  never  to  drive  any  of  us  more." 

"And  was  it  pleasure  to  drive  us,  cousin?  I  am  sure  I  have 
often  pitied  him.  It  rained  sometimes  very  hard  when  he  was 
on  the  box;  and  sometimes  Lady  Clementina  has  kept  him 
a  whole  hour  at  the  door  all  in  the  cold  and  snow.  Was  that 
pleasure?" 

"No,"  replied  young  William. 

"Was  it  honour,  cousin?" 

"No,"  exclaimed  his  cousin  with  a  contemptuous  smile. 

"Then  why  did  my  uncle  say  to  him,  as  a  punishment,  'he 
should  never ' " 

"Come  hither,  child,"  said  the  dean,  "and  let  me  instruct  you  ; 
your  father's  negHgence  has  been  inexcusable.  There  are  in 
society,"  continued  the  dean,  "rich  and  poor;  the  poor  are 
born  to  serve  the  rich." 

"And  what  are  the  rich  born  for?" 

"To  be  served  by  the  poor." 

"But  suppose  the  poor  would  not  serve  them?" 

"Then  they  must  starve." 

"And  so  poor  people  are  permitted  to  live  only  upon  condition 
that  they  wait  upon  the  rich  ?  " 

"Is  that  a  hard  condition ?  or  if  it  were,  they  will  be  rewarded 
in  a  better  world  than  this." 

"Is  there  a  better  world  than  this?" 

"Is  it  possible  you  do  not  know  there  is  ?" 

"  I  heard  my  father  once  say  something  about  a  world  to  come ; 
but  he  stopped  short,  and  said  I  was  too  young  to  understand 
what  he  meant." 

"The  world  to  come,"  returned  the  dean,  "is  where  we  shall  go 
after  death;  and  there  no  distinction  will  be  made  between 
rich  and  poor  —  all  persons  there  will  be  equal." 


728  MRS.   ELIZABETH   INCHBALD 

"Aye,  now  I  see  what  makes  it  a  better  world  than  this. 
But  cannot  this  world  try  to  be  as  good  as  that  ?  " 

"In  respect  to  placing  all  persons  on  a  level,  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible.    God  has  ordained  it  otherwise." 

"How  !  has  God  ordained  a  distinction  to  be  made,  and  will 
not  make  any  Himself?" 

The  dean  did  not  proceed  in  his  instructions.  He  now  began 
to  think  his  brother  in  the  right,  and  that  the  boy  was  too  young, 
or  too  weak,  to  comprehend  the  subject. 

CHAPTER  XIV 

In  addition  to  his  ignorant  conversation  upon  many  topics, 
young  Henry  had  an  incorrigible  misconception  and  misapplica- 
tion of  many  words.  His  father  having  had  but  few  oppor- 
tunities of  discoursing  with  him,  upon  account  of  his  attendance 
at  the  court  of  the  savages,  and  not  having  books  in  the  island, 
he  had  consequently  many  words  to  learn  of  this  country's 
language  when  he  arrived  in  England.  This  task  his  retentive 
memory  made  easy  to  him ;  but  his  childish  inattention  to 
their  proper  signification  still  made  his  want  of  education 
conspicuous. 

He  would  call  compliments,  lies;  reserve,  he  would  call  pride; 
stateliness,  affectation;  and  for  the  words  war  and  battle,  he  con- 
stantly substituted  the  word  massacre. 

"Sir,"  said  Wilham  to  his  father  one  morning,  as  he  entered 
the  room,  "do  you  hear  how  the  cannons  are  firing,  and  the 
bells  ringing  ?" 

"Then  I  dare  say,"  cried  Henry,  "there  has  been  another 
massacre." 

The  dean  called  to  him  in  anger,  "Will  you  never  learn  the 
right  use  of  words  ?     You  mean  to  say  a  battle." 

"Then  what  is  a  massacre?"  cried  the  frightened,  but  still 
curious  Henry. 

"A  massacre,"  replied  his  uncle,  "is  when  a  number  of  people 
are  slain " 

"I  thought,"  returned  Henry,  "soldiers  had  been  people  !" 

"You  interrupted  me,"  said  the  dean,  "before  I  finished  my 


NATURE  AND   ART  729 

sentence.  Certainly,  both  soldiers  and  sailors  are  people,  but 
they  engage  to  die  by  their  own  free  will  and  consent," 

"What!  all  of  them?" 

''Most  of  them." 

"But  the  rest  are  massacred?" 

The  dean  answered,  "The  number  who  go  to  battle  unwillingly, 
and  by  force,  are  few ;  and  for  the  others,  they  have  previously 
sold  their  Hves  to  the  state." 

"For  what?" 

"For  soldiers'  and  sailors'  pay." 

"My  father  used  to  tell  me,  we  must  not  take  away  our  own 
lives ;  but  he  forgot  to  tell  me  we  might  sell  them  for  others  to 
take  away." 

"  Wilham,"  said  the  dean  to  his  son,  his  patience  tired  with  his 
nephew's  persevering  nonsense,  "explain  to  your  cousin  the 
difference  between  a  battle  and  a  massacre." 

"A  massacre,"  said  WiUiam,  rising  from  his  seat,  and  fixing 
his  eyes  alternately  upon  his  father,  his  mother,  and  the  bishop 
(all  of  whom  were  present)  for  their  approbation,  rather  than 
the  person's  to  whom  his  instructions  were  to  be  addressed  —  "d, 
massacre,"  said  William,  "is  when  human  beings  are  slain,  who 
have  it  not  in  their  power  to  defend  themselves." 

"Dear  cousin  William,"  said  Henry,  "that  must  ever  be  the 
case  with  every  one  who  is  killed." 

After  a  short  hesitation,  William  replied:  "In  massacres 
people  are  put  to  death  for  no  crime,  but  merely  because  they  are 
objects  of  suspicion." 

"But  in  battle,"  said  Henry,  "  the  persons  put  to  death  are  not 
even  suspected." 

The  bishop  now  condescended  to  end  this  disputation  by  saying 
emphatically, 

"  Consider,  young  savage,  that  in  battle  neither  the  infant,  the 
aged,  the  sick,  nor  infirm  are  involved,  but  only  those  in  the  full 
prime  of  health  and  vigour." 

As  this  argument  came  from  so  great  and  reverend  a  man  as 
the  bishop,  Henry  was  obliged,  by  a  frown  from  his  uncle,  to 
submit,  as  one  refuted  ;  although  he  had  an  answer  at  the  veriest 
tip  of  his  tongue,  which  it  was  torture  to  him  not  to  utter. 


730  MRS.   ELIZABETH   INCHBALD 

What  he  wished  to  say  must  ever  remain  a  secret.  The  church 
has  its  terrors  as  well  as  the  law ;  and  Henry  was  awed  by  the 
dean's  tremendous  wig  as  much  as  Paternoster  Row  is  awed  by 
the  Attorney-General. 

[Young  Henry  and  young  William  grow  up  developing  the  same  traits  of 
character  which  they  showed  as  children:  the  one  retaining  his  natural  sim- 
plicity, the  other  never  guilty  of  a  social  blunder.  William,  after  some  worldly 
experience,  makes  a  marriage  compatible  with  his  position  in  society; 
Henry  marries  a  curate'' s  daughter  whose  tastes  are  congenial  with  his  own.] 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

Is  there  a  reader  so  little  experienced  in  the  human  heart,  so 
forgetful  of  his  own,  as  not  to  feel  the  possibiHty  of  the  following 
fact? 

A  series  of  uncommon  calamities  had  been  for  many  years  the 
lot  of  the  elder  Henry;  a  succession  of  prosperous  events  had 
fallen  to  the  share  of  his  brother  William.  The  one  was  the 
envy,  while  the  other  had  the  compassion,  of  all  who  thought 
about  them.  For  the  last  twenty  years,  William  had  Hved  in 
affluence,  bordering  upon  splendour,  his  friends,  his  fame,  his 
fortune,  daily  increasing,  while  Henry  throughout  that  very 
period  had,  by  degrees,  lost  all  he  loved  on  earth,  and  was  now 
existing  apart  from  civilised  society ;  and  yet,  during  those 
twenty  years,  where  William  knew  one  happy  moment,  Henry 
tasted  hundreds. 

It  was,  after  an  exile  of  more  than  twenty-three  years,  when, 
on  one  sultry  morning,  after  pleasant  dreams  during  the  night, 
Henry  had  waked  with  more  than  usual  perception  of  his  misery, 
that,  sitting  upon  the  beach,  his  wishes  and  his  looks  all  bent 
on  the  sea  towards  his  native  land,  he  thought  he  saw  a  sail 
swelling  before  an  unexpected  breeze. 

''Sure  I  am  dreaming  still ! "  he  cried.  "This  is  the  very  vessel 
I  last  night  saw  in  my  sleep  !  Oh  !  what  cruel  mockery  that  my 
eyes  should  so  deceive  me  !" 

After  a  few  minutes  passed  in  dreadful  uncertainty,  which 
enhanced  the  wished-for  happiness,  the  ship  evidently  drew  near 
the  land ;   a  boat  was  launched  from  her,  and  while  Henry,  now 


NATURE   AND   ART  731 

upon  his  knees,  wept  and  prayed  fervently  for  the  event,  a  youth 
sprang  from  the  barge  on  the  strand,  rushed  towards  him,  and 
falUng  on  his  neck,  then  at  his  feet,  exclaimed,  "My  father! 
oh,  my  father  !" 

William  !  dean  !  bishop  !  what  are  your  honours,  what  your 
riches,  what  all  your  possessions,  compared  to  the  happiness, 
the  transport  bestowed  by  this  one  sentence,  on  your  poor 
brother  Henry  ? 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

It  was  about  five  in  the  afternoon  of  a  summer's  day,  that 
Henry  and  his  son  left  the  sign  of  the  Mermaid  to  pursue  their 
third  day's  journey :  the  young  man's  spirits  elated  with  the 
prospect  of  the  reception  he  should  meet  from  Rebecca^:  the 
elder  dejected  at  not  having  received  a  speedy  welcome  from 
his  brother. 

The  road  which  led  to  Anfield  by  the  shortest  course  of  neces- 
sity took  our  .travellers  within  sight  of  the  bishop's  palace. 
The  turrets  appeared  at  a  distance  ;  and  on  the  sudden  turn  round 
the  corner  of  a  large  plantation,  the  whole  magnificent  structure 
was  at  once  exhibited  before  his  brother's  astonished  eyes. 
He  was  struck  with  the  grandeur  of  the  habitation  ;  and,  totally 
forgetting  all  the  unkind,  the  contemptuous  treatment  he  had 
ever  received  from  its  owner,  smiled  with  a  kind  of  transport 
"that  William  was  so  great  a  man." 

After  this  first  joyous  sensation  was  over,  "Let  us  go  a  little 
nearer,  my  son,"  said  he ;  "no  one  will  see  us,  I  hope ;  or,  if  they 
should,  you  can  run  and  conceal  yourself ;  and  not  a  creature 
will  know  me;  even  my  brother  would  not  know  me  thus  altered  ; 
and  I  wish  to  take  a  little  farther  view  of  his  fine  house,  and  all 
his  pleasure  grounds." 

Young  Henry,  though  impatient  to  be  gone,  would  not  object 
to  his  father's  desire.  They  walked  forward  between  a  shady 
grove  and  a  purling  rivulet,  snuffed  in  odours  from  the  jessa- 
mine banks,  and  listened  to  the  melody  of  an  adjoining  aviary. 

1  Henry's  betrothed. 


732  MRS.   ELIZABETH  INCHBALD 

Th.e  allurements  of  the  spot  seemed  to  enchain  the  elder 
Henry,  and  he  at  length  sauntered  to  the  very  avenue  of  the 
dwelling ;  but,  just  as  he  had  set  his  daring  yet  trembling  feet 
upon  the  turf  which  led  to  the  palace  gates,  he  suddenly  stopped, 
on  hearing,  as  he  thought,  the  village  clock  strike  seven,  which 
reminded  him  that  evening  drew  on,  and  it  was  time  to  go.  He 
listened  again,  when  he  and  his  son,  both  together,  said,  "It 
is  the  toll  of  the  bell  before  some  funeral." 

The  signals  of  death,  while  they  humble  the  rich,  inspire  the 
poor  with  pride.  The  passing  bell  gave  Henry  a  momentary 
sense  of  equaUty ;  and  he  courageously  stepped  forward  to  the 
first  winding  of  the  avenue. 

He  started  back  at  the  sight  which  presented  itself. 

A  hearse  —  mourning  coaches  —  mutes  —  plumed  horses  — 
with  every  other  token  of  the  person's  importance  who  was 
going  to  be  committed  to  the  earth. 

Scarcely  had  his  terrified  eyes  been  thus  unexpectedly  struck, 
when  a  coffin  borne  by  six  men  issued  from  the  gates,  and  was 
deposited  in  the  waiting  receptacle ;  while  gentlemen  in  mourning 
went  into  the  different  coaches. 

A  standard-bearer  now  appeared  with  an  escutcheon,  on  which 
the  keys  and  mitre  were  displayed.  Young  Henry,  upon  this, 
pathetically  exclaimed,  "My  uncle  !  it  is  my  uncle's  funeral !" 

Henry,  his  father,  burst  into  tears. 

The  procession  moved  along. 

The  two  Henrys,  the  only  real  mourners  in  the  train,  followed 
at  a  little  distance  —  in  rags,  but  in  tears. 

The  elder  Henry's  heart  was  nearly  bursting ;  he  longed  to 
clasp  the  dear  remains  of  his  brother  without  the  dread  of  being 
spurned  for  his  presumption.  He  now  could  no  longer  remember 
him  either  as  the  dean  or  bishop ;  but,  leaping  over  that  whole 
interval  of  pride  and  arrogance,  called  only  to  his  memory 
William,  such  as  he  knew  him  when  they  lived  at  home  to- 
gether, together  walked  to  London,  and  there  together  almost 
perished  for  want. 

They  arrived  at  the  church ;  and,  while  the  coffin  was  placing 
in  the  dreary  vault,  the  weeping  brother  crept  slowly  after  to 
the  hideous  spot.     His  reflections  now  fixed  on  a  different  point. 


NATURE  AND   ART 


733 


"Is  this  possible  ?"  said  he  to  himself.  "Is  this  the  dean,  whom 
I  ever  feared  ?  Is  this  the  bishop,  of  whom  within  the  present 
hour  I  stood  in  awe  ?  Is  this  William,  whose  every  glance  struck 
me  with  his  superiority  ?  Alas,  my  brother  !  and  is  this  horrid 
abode  the  reward  for  all  your  aspiring  efforts  ?  Are  these 
sepulchral  trappings  the  only  testimonies  of  your  greatness  which 
you  exhibit  to  me  on  my  return  ?  Did  you  foresee  an  end  like 
this,  while  you  treated  me,  and  many  niore  of  your  youthful 
companions,  with  haughtiness  and  contempt ;  while  you  thought 
it  becoming  of  your  dignity  to  shun  and  despise  us  ?  Where  is 
the  difference  now  between  my  departed  wife  and  you  ?  Or,  if 
there  be  a  difference,  she,  perchance,  has  the  advantage.  Ah,  my 
poor  brother  !  for  distinction  in  the  other  world,  I  trust,  some  of 
your  anxious  labours  have  been  employed  ;  for  you  are  now  of  less 
importance  in  this  than  when  you  and  I  first  left  our  native  town, 
and  hoped  for  nothing  greater  than  to  be  suffered  to  exist." 

On  their  quitting  the  church,  they  inquired  of  the  bystanders 
the  immediate  cause  of  the  bishop's  death,  and  heard  he  had 
been  suddenly  carried  off  by  a  raging  fever. 

Young  Henry  inquired  "if  Lady  Clementina  was  at  the  palace, 
or  Mr.  Norwynne  ?  " 

"The  latter  is  there,"  he  was  answered  by  a  poor  woman; 
"but  Lady  Clementina  has  been  dead  these  four  years." 

"Dead  !  dead  !"  cried  young  Henry.  "That  worldly  woman  ! 
quitted  this  world  for  ever  !" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  stranger;  "she  caught  cold  by  wearing 
a  new-fashioned  dress  that  did  not  half  cover  her,  wasted  all 
away,  and  died  the  miserablest  object  you  ever  heard  of." 

The  person  who  gave  this  melancholy  intelligence  concluded 
it  with  a  hearty  laugh. 


CHAPTER  XLVTI 

By  forming  a  humble  scheme  for  their  remaining  life,  a  scheme 
depending  upon  their  own  exertions  alone,  on  no  light  promises 
of  pretended  friends,  and  on  no  sanguine  hopes  of  certain  success, 
but  with  prudent  apprehension,  with  fortitude  against  disap- 


734 


MRS.   ELIZABETH   INCHBALD 


pointment,  Henry,  his  son,  and  Rebecca  (now  his  daughter), 
found  themselves,  at  the  end  of  one  year,  in  the  enjoyment  of 
every  comfort  which  such  distinguished  minds  knew  how  to  taste. 

Exempt  both  from  patronage  and  from  control  —  healthy  — 
alive  to  every  fruition  with  which  Nature  blesses  the  world ; 
dead  to  all  out  of  their  power  to  attain,  the  works  of  art  —  sus- 
ceptible of  those  passions  which  endear  human  creatures  one  to 
another,  insensible  to  those  which  separate  man  from  man  — 
they  found  themselves  the  thankful  inhabitants  of  a  small  house, 
or  hut,  placed  on  the  borders  of  the  sea. 

Each  morning  wakes  the  father  and  the  son  to  cheerful  labour 
in  fishing,  or  the  tending  of  a  garden,  the  produce  of  which  they 
carry  to  the  next  market  town.  The  evening  sends  them  back 
to  their  home  in  joy :  where  Rebecca  meets  them  at  the  door, 
affectionately  boasts  of  the  warm  meal  that  is  ready,  and 
heightens  the  charm  of  conversation  with  her  taste  and  judgment. 

It  was  after  a  supper  of  roots  from  their  garden,  poultry  that 
Rebecca's  hand  had  reared,  and  a  jug  brewed  by  young  Henry, 
that  the  following  discourse  took  place. 

"My  son,"  said  the  elder  Henry,  "where  under  Heaven  shall 
three  persons  be  met  together  happy  as  we  three  are?  It  is 
the  want  of  industry,  or  the  want  of  reflection,  which  makes  the 
poor  dissatisfied.  Labour  gives  a  value  to  rest  which  the  idle 
can  never  taste ;  and  reflection  gives  to  the  mind  a  degree  of  con- 
tent which  the  unthinking  never  can  know." 

"I  once,"  rephed  the  younger  Henry,  "considered  poverty  a 
curse ;  but  after  my  thoughts  became  enlarged,  and  I  had 
associated  for  years  with  the  rich,  and  now  mix  with  the  poor, 
my  opinion  has  undergone  a  total  change ;  for  I  have  seen,  and 
have  enjoyed,  more  real  pleasure  at  work  with  my  fellow-labour- 
ers, and  in  this  cottage,  than  ever  I  beheld,  or  experienced,  during 
my  abode  at  my  uncle's;  during  all  my  intercourse  with  the 
fashionable  and  the  powerful  of  this  world." 

"The  worst  is,"  said  Rebecca,  "the  poor  have  not  always 
enough." 

"Who  has  enough?"  asked  her  husband.  "Had  my  uncle? 
No :  he  hoped  for  more ;  and  in  all  his  writings  sacrificed  his 
duty  to   his   avarice.     Had  his   son  enough,  when  he  yielded 


NATURE  AND   ART 


735 


up  his  honour,  his  domestic  peace,  to  gratify  his  ambition  ? 
Had  Lady  Bendham  enough,  when  she  staked  all  she  had,  in  the 
hope  of  becoming  richer  ?  Were  we,  my  Rebecca,  of  discontented 
minds,  we  have  now  too  little.  But  conscious,  from  observa- 
tion and  experience,  that  the  rich  are  not  so  happy  as  ourselves, 
we  rejoice  in  our  lot." 

The  tear  of  joy  which  stole  from  her  eye  expressed,  more  than 
his  words,  a  state  of  happiness. 

He  continued  :  "I  remember,  when  I  first  came  a  boy  to  Eng- 
land, the  poor  excited  my  compassion ;  but  now  that  my  judg- 
ment is  matured,  I  pity  the  rich.  I  know  that  in  this  opulent 
kingdom  there  are  nearly  as  many  persons  perishing  through 
intemperance  as  starving  with  hunger ;  there  are  as  many  miser- 
able in  the  lassitude  of  having  nothing  to  do  as  there  are  of  those 
bowed  down  to  the  earth  with  hard  labour ;  there  are  more  per- 
sons who  draw  upon  themselves  calamity  by  following  their 
own  will  than  there  are  who  experience  it  by  obeying  the  will  of 
another.  Add  to  this,  that  the  rich  are  so  much  afraid  of  dying 
they  have  no  comfort  in  living." 

''There  the  poor  have  another  advantage,"  said  Rebecca; 
"for  they  may  defy  not  only  death,  but  every  loss  by  sea  or 
land,  as  they  have  nothing  to  lose." 

"Besides,"  added  the  elder  Henry,  "there  is  a  certain  joy  of 
the  most  gratifying  kind  that  the  human  mind  is  capable  of 
tasting,  peculiar  to  the  poor,  and  of  which  the  rich  can  but 
seldom  experience  the  delight." 

"What  can  that  be?"  cried  Rebecca. 

"A  kind  word,  a  benevolent  smile,  one  token  of  esteem  from 
the  person  whom  we  consider  as  our  superior." 

To  which  Rebecca  repHed,  "And  the  rarity  of  obtaining  such 
a  token  is  what  increases  the  honour." 

"  Certainly,"  returned  young  Henry,  "and  yet  those  in  poverty, 
ungrateful  as  they  are,  murmur  against  that  Government  from 
which  they  receive  the  blessing." 

"But  this  is  the  fault  of  education,  of  early  prejudice,"  said 
the  elder  Henry.  "Our  children  observe  us  pay  respect,  even 
reverence,  to  the  wealthy,  while  we  slight  or  despise  the 
poor.     The  impression  thus  made  on  their  minds  in  youth  is 


736  MRS.   ELIZABETH  INCHBALD 

indelible  during  the  more  advanced  periods  of  life;  and  they 
continue  to  pine  after  riches,  and  lament  under  poverty :  nor 
is  the  seeming  folly  wholly  destitute  of  reason ;  for  human  beings 
are  not  yet  so  deeply  sunk  in  voluptuous  gratification,  or  childish 
vanity,  as  to  place  delight  in  any  attainment  which  has  not  for 
its  end  the  love  or  admiration  of  their  fellow-beings." 

"Let  the  poor,  then,"  cried  the  younger  Henry,  "no  more 
be  their  own  persecutors  —  no  longer  pay  homage  to  wealth  — 
instantaneously  the  whole  idolatrous  worship  will  cease  —  the 
idol  will  be  broken  !" 


ADVENTURES   OF  CALEB  WILLIAMS 
WILLIAM   GODWIN 

My  life  has  for  several  years  been  a  theatre  of  calamity.  I 
have  been  a  mark  for  the  vigilance  of  tyranny,  and  I  could 
not  escape.  My  fairest  prospects  have  been  blasted.  My 
enemy  has  shown  himself  inaccessible  to  entreaties  and  untired 
in  persecution.  My  fame,  as  well  as  my  happiness,  has  become 
his  victim.  Every  one,  as  far  as  my  story  has  been  known,  has 
refused  to  assist  me  in  my  distress,  and  execrated  my  name. 
I  have  not  deserved  this  treatment :  my  own  conscience  wit- 
nesses in  behalf  of  that  innocence ;  my  pretensions  to  which 
are  regarded  in  the  world  as  incredible.  There  is  now,  however, 
little  hope  that  I  shall  escape  from  the  toils  that  universally 
beset  me.  I  am  incited  to  the  penning  of  these  memoirs,  only 
by  a  desire  to  divert  my  mind  from  the  deplorableness  of  my 
situation,  and  a  faint  idea  that  posterity  may  by  their  means  be 
induced  to  render  me  a  justice  which  my  contemporaries  refuse. 
My  story  will  at  least  appear  to  have  that  consistency,  which  is 
seldom  attendant  but  upon  truth. 

I  was  born  of  humble  parents  in  a  remote  county  of  England ; 
their  occupations  were  such  as  usually  fall  to  the  lot  of  peasants, 
and  they  had  no  portion  to  give  me,  but  an  education  free  from 
the  usual  sources  of  depravity,  and  the  inheritance,  long  since 
lost  by  their  unfortunate  progeny  !  of  an  honest  fame.  I  was 
taught  the  rudiments  of  no  science,  except  reading,  writing,  and 
arithmetic.  But  I  had  an  inquisitive  mind,  and  neglected  no 
means  of  information  from  conversation  or  books.  My  improve- 
ment was  greater  than  my  condition  in  life  afforded  room  to 
expect. 

There  are  other  circumstances  deserving  to  be  mentioned  as 
having  influenced  the  history  of  my  future  life.  I  was  somewhat 
above  the  middle  stature.     Without  being  particularly  athletic 

737 


738  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

in  appearance  or  large  in  my  dimensions,  I  was  uncommonly 
vigorous  and  active.  My  joints  were  supple,  and  I  was  formed 
to  excel  in  youthful  sports.  The  habits  of  my  mind,  however, 
were  to  a  certain  degree  at  war  with  the  dictates  of  boyish  vanity, 
I  had  considerable  aversion  to  the  boisterous  gaiety  of  the  vil- 
lage gallants,  and  contrived  to  satisfy  my  love  of  praise  with  an 
unfrequent  apparition  at  their  amusements.  My  excellence 
in  these  respects,  however,  gave  a  turn  to  my  meditations.  I  de- 
Kghted  to  read  of  feats  of  activity,  and  was  particularly  inter- 
ested by  tales  in  which  corporeal  ingenuity  or  strength  are  the 
means  resorted  to  for  supplying  resources  and  conquering  diffi- 
culties. I  inured  myself  to  mechanical  pursuits,  and  devoted 
much  of  my  time  to  an  endeavour  after  mechanical  invention. 

The  residence  of  my  parents  was  within  the  manor  of  Ferdi- 
nando  Falkland,  a  country  squire  of  considerable  opulence. 
At  an  early  age  I  attracted  the  favourable  notice  of  Mr.  Colhns, 
this  gentleman's  steward,  who  used  to  call  in  occasionally  at 
my  father's.  He  observed  the  particulars  of  my  progress  with 
approbation,  and  made  a  favourable  report  to  his  master  of  my 
industry  and  genius. 

In  the  summer  of  the  year ,  Mr.   Falkland  visited  his 

estate  in  our  country  after  an  absence  of  several  months.  This 
was  a  period  of  misfortune  to  me.  I  was  then  eighteen  years  of 
age.  My  father  lay  dead  in  our  cottage.  I  had  lost  my  mother 
some  years  before.  In  this  forlorn  situation  I  was  surprised  with 
a  message  from  the  squire,  ordering  me  to  repair  to  the  mansion- 
house  the  morning  after  my  father's  funeral. 

Though  I  was  not  a  stranger  to  books,  I  had  no  practical 
acquaintance  with  men.  I  had  never  had  occasion  to  address 
a  person  of  this  elevated  rank,  and  I  felt  no  small  uneasiness 
and  awe  on  the  present  occasion.  I  found  Mr.  Falkland  a  man 
of  small  stature,  with  an  extreme  delicacy  of  form  and  appear- 
ance. In  place  of  the  hard-favoured  and  inflexible  visages  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  observe,  every  muscle  and  petty  line  of  his 
countenance  seemed  to  be  in  an  inconceivable  degree  pregnant 
with  meaning.  His  manner  was  kind,  attentive,  and  humane. 
His  eye  was  full  of  animation,  but  there  was  a  grave  and  sad 
solemnity  in  his  air,  which  for  want  of  experience  I  imagined 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  739 

was  the  inheritance  of  the  great,  and  the  instrument  by  which 
the  distance  between  them  and  their  inferiors  was  maintained. 
His  look  bespoke  the  unquietness  of  his  mind,  and  frequently 
wandered  with  an  expression  of  disconsolateness  and  anxiety. 
My  reception  was  as  gracious  and  encouraging  as  I  could  possibly 
desire.  Mr.  Falkland  questioned  me  respecting  my  learning, 
and  my  conceptions  of  men  and  things,  and  listened  to  my  an- 
swers with  condescension  and  approbation.  This  kindness 
soon  restored  to  me  a  considerable  part  of  my  self-possession, 
though  I  still  felt  restrained  by  the  graceful,  but  unaltered  dig- 
nity of  his  carriage.  I  have  already  said  that  I  was  not  un- 
acquainted with  books.  I  had  not  failed  to  derive  advantage 
from  the  opportunities  which  offered  themselves,  and  some  of 
those  opportunities  were  of  very  fortunate  occurrence.  But  it 
is  not  my  purpose  to  draw  out  this  narrative  by  unnecessary 
detail ;  I  leave  the  reader  to  collect  what  my  acquisitions  had 
been,  from  the  incidents  which  followed.  When  Mr.  Falkland 
had  sufhciently  satisfied  his  curiosity,  he  proceeded  to  inform 
me  that  he  was  in  want  of  a  secretary,  that  I  appeared  to  him 
sufficiently  qualified  for  that  office,  and  that  if,  in  my  present 
change  of  situation,  occasioned  by  the  death  of  my  father,  I 
approved  of  the  employment,  he  would  take  me  into  his  family. 

I  felt  highly  flattered  by  the  proposal,  and  was  warm  in  the 
expression  of  my  acknowledgments.  I  set  eagerly  about  the 
disposal  of  the  little  property  my  father  had  left,  in  which  I  was 
assisted  by  Mr.  Collins.  I  had  not  now  a  relation  in  the  world, 
upon  whose  kindness  and  interposition  I  had  any  direct  claim. 
But,  far  from  regarding  this  deserted  situation  with  terror,  I 
formed  golden  visions  of  the  station  I  was  about  to  occupy.  I 
little  suspected,  that  the  gaiety  and  lightness  of  heart  I  had 
hitherto  enjoyed  were  upon  the  point  of  leaving  me  for  ever,  and 
that  the  rest  of  my  days  were  devoted  to  misery  and  alarm. 

My  employment  was  easy  and  agreeable.  It  consisted  partly 
of  the  transcribing  and  arranging  certain  papers,  and  partly  in 
writing  from  my  master's  dictation  letters  of  business,  as  well 
as  sketches  of  literary  composition.  Many  of  these  latter 
consisted  of  an  analytical  survey  of  the  plans  of  different  authors, 
and  conjectural  speculations  upon  hints  they  afforded,  tending 


740  WILLIAM    GODWIN 

either  to  the  detection  of  their  errors  or  the  carrying  forward 
their  discoveries.  All  of  them  bore  powerful  marks  of  a  pro- 
found and  elegant  mind,  well  stored  with  literature,  and  possessed 
of  an  uncommon  share  of  activity  and  discrimination. 

My  station  was  in  that  part  of  the  house  which  was  appro- 
priated for  the  reception  of  books,  it  being  my  duty  to  perform 
the  functions  of  librarian  as  well  as  secretary.  Here  my  hours 
would  have  glided  in  tranquillity  and  peace,  had  not  my  situa- 
tion included  in  it  circumstances  totally  different  from  those 
which  attended  me  in  my  father's  cottage.  In  early  life  my 
mind  had  been  much  engrossed  by  reading  and  reflection.  My 
intercourse  with  my  fellow  mortals  was  occasional  and  short. 
But  in  my  new  residence  I  was  excited  by  every  motive  of 
interest  and  novelty  to  study  my  master's  character,  and  I  found 
in  it  an  ample  field  for  speculation  and  conjecture. 

His  mode  of  living  was  in  the  utmost  degree  recluse  and  soli- 
tary. He  had  no  inclination  to  scenes  of  revelry  and  mirth. 
He  avoided  the  busy  haunts  of  men ;  nor  did  he  seem  desirous 
to  compensate  for  this  privation  by  the  confidence  of  friendship. 
He  appeared  a  total  stranger  to  everything  which  usually  bears 
the  appellation  of  pleasure.  His  features  were  scarcely  ever 
relaxed  into  a  smile,  nor  did  that  air  which  bespoke  the  unhappi- 
ness  of  his  mind  at  any  time  forsake  them.  Yet  his  manners 
were  by  no  means  such  as  denoted  moroseness  and  misanthropy. 
He  was  compassionate  and  considerate  for  others,  though  the 
stateliness  of  his  carriage  and  the  reserve  of  his  temper  were  at 
no  time  interrupted.  His  appearance  and  general  behaviour 
might  have  strongly  interested  all  persons  in  his  favour ;  but  the 
coldness  of  his  address,  and  the  impenetrableness  of  his  senti- 
ments, seemed  to  forbid  those  demonstrations  of  kindness  to 
which  one  might  otherwise  have  been  prompted. 

Such  was  the  general  appearance  of  Mr.  Falkland ;  but  his 
temper  was  extremely  unequal.  The  distemper  which  aftlicted 
him  with  incessant  gloom  had  its  paroxysms.  Sometimes  he 
was  hasty,  peevish  and  tyrannical;  but  this  proceeded  rather 
from  the  torment  of  his  mind  than  an  unfeeling  disposition,  and, 
when  reflection  recurred,  he  appeared  willing  that  the  weight  of 
his  misfortune  should  fall  wholly  upon  himself.     Sometimes  he 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  741 

entirely  lost  his  self-possession,  and  his  behaviour  was  changed 
into  frenzy.  He  would  strike  his  forehead,  his  brows  became 
knit,  his  features  distorted,  and  his  teeth  ground  one  against  the 
other.  When  he  felt  the  approach  of  these  symptoms,  he  would 
suddenly  rise,  and,  leaving  the  occupation,  whatever  it  was,  in 
which  he  was  engaged,  hasten  into  a  sohtude  upon  which  no 
person  dared  to  intrude. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  whole  of  what  I  am  describ- 
ing was  visible  to  the  persons  about  him  :  nor,  indeed,  was  I 
acquainted  with  it  in  the  extent  here  stated,  but  after  a  consid- 
erable time,  and  in  gradual  succession.  With  respect  to  the 
domestics  in  general,  they  saw  but  little  of  their  master.  None 
of  them,  except  myself,  from  the  nature  of  my  functions,  and 
Mr.  CoUins,  from  the  antiquity  of  his  services  and  the  respect- 
ableness  of  his  character,  approached  Mr.  Falkland,  but  at 
stated  seasons  and  for  a  very  short  interval.  They  knew  him 
only  by  the  benevolence  of  his  actions  and  the  principles  of 
inflexible  integrity  by  which  he  was  ordinarily  guided ;  and 
though  they  would  sometimes  indulge  their  conjectures  respect- 
ing his  singularities,  they  regarded  him,  upon  the  whole,  with 
veneration,  as  being  of  a  superior  order. 

One  day,  when  I  had  been  about  three  months  in  the  service 
of  my  patron,  I  went  to  a  closet,  or  small  apartment,  which 
was  separated  from  the  library  by  a  narrow  gallery,  that  was 
lighted  by  a  small  window  near  the  roof.  I  had  conceived  that 
there  was  no  person  in  the  room,  and  intended  only  to  put  any- 
thing in  order  that  I  might  find  out  of  its  place.  As  I  opened 
the  door,  I  heard  at  the  same  instant  a  deep  groan,  expressive  of 
intolerable  anguish.  The  sound  of  the  door  in  opening  seemed 
to  alarm  the  person  within ;  I  heard  the  lid  of  a  trunk  hastily 
shut,  and  the  noise  as  of  fastening  a  lock.  I  conceived  that 
Mr.  Falkland  was  there,  and  was  going  instantly  to  retire ;  but 
at  that  moment,  a  voice  that  seemed  supernaturally  tremen- 
dous, exclaimed,  'Who  is  there  ?'  The  voice  was  Mr.  Falkland's 
■ —  the  sound  of  it  thrilled  my  very  vitals.  I  endeavoured  to 
answer,  but  my  speech  failed,  and  being  incapable  of  any  other 
reply,  I  instinctively  advanced  within  the  door  into  the  room. 
Mr.  Falkland  was  just  risen  from  the  floor  upon  which  he  had 


742  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

been  sitting  or  kneeling.  His  face  betrayed  strong  symptoms  of 
confusion.  With  a  violent  effort,  however,  these  symptoms  van- 
ished, and  instantaneously  gave  place  to  a  countenance  spark- 
ling with  rage.  '  Villain  ! '  cried  he,  '  what  has  brought  you  here  ? ' 
I  hesitated  a  confused  and  irresolute  answer.  'Wretch!' 
interrupted  Mr.  Falkland,  with  uncontrollable  impatience, 
'you  want  to  ruin  me.  You  set  yourself  as  a  spy  upon  my 
actions ;  but  bitterly  shall  you  repent  your  insolence.  Do 
you  think  you  shall  watch  my  privacies  with  impunity  ?  Be- 
gone, devil!'  rejoined  he.  'Quit  the  roQm,  or  I  will  trample 
you  into  atoms.'  Saying  this  he  advanced  towards  me;  but  I 
was  already  sufficiently  terrified,  and  vanished  in  a  moment. 
I  heard  the  door  shut  after  me  with  violence,  and  thus  ended 
this  extraordinary  scene. 

I  saw  him  again  in  the  evening,  and  he  was  then  tolerably 
composed.  His  behaviour,  which  was  always  kind,  was  now 
doubly  attentive  and  soothing,  he  seemed  to  have  something 
of  which  he  wished  to  disburthen  his  mind,  but  to  want  words 
in  which  to  convey  it.  I  looked  at  him  with  anxiety  and  affec- 
tion. He  made  two  unsuccessful  efforts,  shook  his  head,  and  then 
putting  five  guineas  into  my  hand,  pressed  it  in  a  manner  that 
I  could  feel  proceeded  from  a  mind  pregnant  with  various  emo- 
tions, though  I  could  not  interpret  them.  Having  done  this, 
he  seemed  immediately  to  recollect  himself,  and  to  take  refuge 
in  the  usual  distance  and  solemnity  of  his  manner. 

I  easily  understood  that  secrecy  was  one  of  the  things  expected 
from  me,  and  indeed  my  mind  was  too  much  disposed  to  medi- 
tate on  what  I  had  heard  and  seen,  to  make  it  a  topic  of  indis- 
criminate communication.  Mr.  Collins,  however,  and  myself 
happened  to  sup  together  that  evening,  which  was  but  seldom 
the  case,  his  avocations  obliging  him  to  be  much  abroad.  He 
could  not  help  observing  an  uncommon  dejection  and  anxiety 
in  my  countenance,  and  affectionately  inquired  into  the  reason. 
I  endeavoured  to  evade  his  questions,  but  my  youth  and  igno- 
rance of  the  world  gave  me  httle  advantage  for  that  purpose. 
Beside  this,  I  had  been  accustomed  to  view  Mr.  Collins  with 
considerable  attachment,  and  I  conceived,  from  the  nature  of 
his  situation,  that  there  could  be  small  impropriety  in  making 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  743 

him  my  confidant  in  the  present  instance.  I  repeated  to  him 
minutely  everything  that  had  passed,  and  concluded  with  a 
solemn  declaration  that,  though  treated  with  caprice,  I  was  not 
anxious  for  myself :  no  inconvenience  or  danger  should  ever 
lead  me  to  a  pusillanimous  behaviour ;  and  I  felt  only  for  my 
patron,  who,  with  every  advantage  for  happiness,  and  being 
in  the  highest  degree  worthy  of  it,  seemed  destined  to  undergo 
unmerited  distress. 

In  answer  to  my  communication,  Mr.  Collins  informed  me 
that  some  incidents,  of  a  nature  similar  to  that  which  I  related, 
had  fallen  under  his  own  knowledge,  and  that,  from  the  whole, 
he  could  not  help  concluding  that  our  unfortunate  patron  was 
at  times  disordered  in  his  intellects.  'Alas,'  continued  he,  'it 
was  not  always  thus !  Ferdinando  Falkland  was  once  the  gayest 
of  the  gay.  Not,  indeed,  of  that  frothy  sort,  who  excite  con- 
tempt instead  of  admiiation,  and  whose  levity  argues  thought- 
lessness, rather  than  felicity.  His  gaiety  was  always  accompa- 
nied with  dignity.  It  was  the  gaiety  of  the  hero  and  the  scholar. 
It  was  chastened  with  reflection  and  sensibility,  and  never  lost 
sight  either  of  good  taste  or  humanity.  Such  as  it  was,  however, 
it  denoted  a  genuine  hilarity  of  heart,  imparted  an  inconceivable 
brilhancy  to  his  company  and  conversation,  and  rendered  him 
the  perpetual  delight  of  the  diversified  circles  he  then  willingly 
frequented.  You  see  nothing  of  him,  my  dear  Williams,  but  the 
ruin  of  that  Falkland  who  was  courted  by  sages  and  adored  by 
the  fair.  His  youth,  distinguished  in  its  outset  by  the  most 
unusual  promise,  is  tarnished.  His  sensibility  is  shrunk  up  and 
withered  by  events,  the  most  disgustful  to  his  feelings.  His 
mind  was  fraught  with  all  the  rhapsodies  of  visionary  honour ; 
and,  in  his  sense,  nothing  but  the  grosser  parts,  the  mere  shell 
of  Falkland,  was  capable  of  surviving  the  wound  that  his  pride 
has  sustained.' 


I  shall  endeavour  to  state  the  remainder  of  this  narrative  in 
the  words  of  Mr.  Collins.  The  reader  has  already  had  occasion 
to  perceive  that  Mr.  Collins  was  a  man  of  no  vulgar  order ;  and 
his  reflections  on  this  subject  were  uncommonly  judicious. 


744  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

'This  day  was  the  crisis  of  Mr.  Falkland's  history.  From 
hence  took  its  beginning  that  gloomy  and  unsociable  melan- 
choly, of  which  he  has  since  been  the  victim.  No  two  charac- 
ters can  be  in  certain  respects  more  strongly  contrasted  than  the 
Mr.  Falkland  of  a  date  prior  and  subsequent  to  these  events. 
Hitherto  he  had  been  attended  by  a  fortune  perpetually  pros- 
perous. His  mind  was  sanguine,  full  of  that  undoubting  confi- 
dence in  its  own  powers  which  prosperity  is  calculated  to  produce. 
Though  the  habits  of  his  Hfe  were  those  of  a  serious  and  subHme 
visionary,  they  were  nevertheless  full  of  cheerfulness  and  tran- 
quillity. But  from  this  moment  his  pride  and  the  lofty  adven- 
turousness  of  his  spirit  were  effectually  subdued.  From  an 
object  of  envy  he  was  changed  into  an  object  of  compassion. 
Life,  which  hitherto  no  one  had  more  exquisitely  enjoyed,  be- 
came a  burthen  to  him.  No  more  self-complacency,  no  more 
rapture,  no  more  self-approving  and  heart-transporting  benevo- 
lence !  He  who  had  lived  beyond  any  man  upon  the  grand  and 
animating  reveries  of  the  imagination,  seemed  now  to  have  no 
visions  but  of  anguish  and  despair.  His  case  was  peculiarly 
worthy  of  sympathy,  since,  no  doubt,  if  rectitude  and  purity  of 
disposition  could  give  a  title  to  happiness,  few  men  could  exhibit 
a  more  consistent  and  powerful  claim  than  Mr.  Falkland. 

'He  was  too  deeply  pervaded  with  the  idle  and  groundless 
romances  of  chivalry  ever  to  forget  the  situation,  humiliating 
and  dishonourable  according  to  his  ideas,  in  which  he  had  been 
placed  upon  this  occasion.  There  is  a  mysterious  sort  of  divinity 
annexed  to  the  person  of  a  true  knight  that  makes  any  species 
of  brute  violence  committed  upon  it  indelible  and  immortal. 
To  be  knocked  down,  cuffed,  kicked,  dragged  along  the  floor ! 
sacred  heaven,  the  memory  of  such  a  treatment  was  intoler- 
able !  No  future  lustration  could  ever  remove  the  stain :  and, 
what  was  perhaps  still  worse  in  the  present  case,  the  offender 
having  ceased  to  exist,  the  lustration  which  the  laws  of  knight 
errantry  prescribe  was  rendered  impossible. 

'In  some  future  period  of  human  improvement  it  is  probable 
that  that  calamity  will  be  in  a  manner  unintehigible  which,  in 
the  present  instance,  contributed  to  tarnish  and  wither  the 
excellence  of  one  of  the  most  elevated  and  amiable  of  human 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  745 

minds.  If  Mr.  Falkland  had  reflected  with  perfect  accuracy 
upon  the  case,  he  would  probably  have  been  able  to  look  down 
with  indifference  upon  a  wound  which,  as  it  was,  pierced  his 
very  vitals.  How  much  more  dignity  than  in  the  modern 
duelHst  do  we  find  in  Themistocles,  the  most  gallant  of  the 
Greeks,  who,  when  Eurybiades,  his  commander-in-chief,  in 
answer  to  some  of  his  remonstrances,  lifted  his  cane  over  him 
with  a  menacing  air,  accosting  him  in  that  noble  apostrophe, 
''Strike,  but  hear?" 

'How  would  a  man  of  true  discernment  in  such  a  case  reply 
to  his  brutal  assailant  ?  "I  make  it  my  boast  that  I  can  endure 
calamity  and  pain :  shall  I  not  be  able  to  endure  the  trifling 
inconvenience  that  your  folly  can  inflict  upon  me  ?  Perhaps  a 
human  being  would  be  more  accomplished,  if  he  understood  the 
science  of  personal  defence ;  but  how  few  would  be  the  occasions 
upon  which  he  would  be  called  to  exert  it  ?  How  few  persons 
would  he  encounter  so  unjust  and  injurious  as  you,  if  his  own 
conduct  were  directed  by  the  principles  of  reason  and  benevo- 
lence ?  Besides,  how  narrow  would  be  the  use  oi  this  science 
when  acquired  ?  It  will  scarcely  put  the  man  of  delicate  make 
and  petty  stature  upon  a  level  with  the  athletic  pugilist ;  and  if 
it  did  in  some  measure  secure  me  against  the  malice  of  a  single 
adversary,  still  my  person  and  my  life,  as  far  as  mere  force  is 
concerned,  would  always  be  at  the  mercy  of  two.  Further  than 
immediate  defence  against  actual  violence,  it  could  never  be  of 
use  to  me.  The  man  who  can  dehberately  meet  his  adversary 
for  the  purpose  of  exposing  the  person  of  one  or  both  of  them  to 
injury,  tramples  upon  every  principle  of  reason  and  equity. 
Duelling  is  the  vilest  of  all  egotism,  treating  the  public,  which 
has  a  claim  to  all  my  powers  and  exertions,  as  if  it  were  nothing, 
and  myself,  or  rather  an  unintelligible  chimera  I  annex  to  my- 
self, as  if  it  were  entitled  to  my  exclusive  attention.  I  am  un- 
able to  cope  with  you :  what  then  ?  Can  that  circumstance 
dishonour  me  ?  No ;  I  can  only  be  dishonoured  by  perpetrat- 
ing an  unjust  action.  My  honour  is  in  my  own  keeping,  beyond 
the  reach  of  all  mankind.  Strike  !  I  am  passive.  No  injury 
that  you  can  inflict  shall  provoke  me  to  expose  you  or  myself  to 
unnecessary  evil ;  I  refuse  that ;  but  I  am  not,  therefore,  pusil- 


746  •  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

lanimous :  when  I  refuse  any  danger  or  suffering  by  which  the 
general  good  may  be  promoted,  then  brand  me  for  a  coward  !" 

'These  reasonings,  however  simple  and  irresistible  they  must 
be  found  by  a  dispassionate  inquirer,  are  little  reflected  on  by 
the  world  at  large,  and  were  most  of  all  uncongenial  to  the 
prejudices  of  Mr.  Falkland. 

'  But  the  public  disgrace  and  chastisement  that  had  been  im- 
posed upon  him,  intolerable  as  they  were  to  be  recollected,  were 
not  the  whole  of  the  mischief  that  redounded  to  our  unfortunate 
patron  from  the  transactions  of  that  day.  It  was  presently 
whispered  that  he  was  no  other  than  the  murderer  of  his  antago- 
nist. This  rumour  was  of  too  much  importance  to  the  very 
continuance  of  his  life  to  be  concealed  from  him.  He  heard  it 
with  inexpressible  astonishment  and  horror ;  it  formed  a  dreadful 
addition  to  the  load  of  intellectual  anguish  that  already  oppressed 
him.  No  man  had  ever  held  his  reputation  more  dear  than  Mr. 
Falkland ;  and  now,  in  one  day,  he  was  fallen  under  the  most 
exquisite  calamities,  a  complicated  personal  insult,  and  the  impu- 
tation of  the  foulest  of  crimes.  He  might  have  fled  ;  for  no  one 
was  forward  to  proceed  against  a  man  so  adored  as  Mr.  Falk- 
land, or  in  revenge  of  one  so  universally  execrated  as  Mr.  Tyrrel. 
But  flight  he  disdained.  In  the  meantime  the  affair  was  of  the 
most  serious  magnitude,  and  the  rumour  unchecked  seemed  daily 
to  increase  in  strength.  Mr.  Falkland  appeared  sometimes 
inclined  to  adopt  such  steps  as  might  have  been  best  calculated 
to  bring  the  imputation  to  a  speedy  trial.  But  he  probably 
feared,  by  too  direct  an  appeal  to  judicature  to  render  more  pre- 
cise an  imputation,  the  memory  of  which  he  deprecated ;  at  the 
same  time  that  he  was  sufficiently  willing  to  meet  the  severest 
scrutiny,  and  if  he  could  not  hope  to  have  it  forgotten  that  he 
had  ever  been  accused,  to  prove  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner 
that  the  accusation  was  unjust. 

'The  neighbouring  magistrates  at  length  conceived  it  neces- 
sary to  take  some  steps  upon  the  subject.  Without  causing  Mr. 
Falkland  to  be  apprehended,  they  sent  to  desire  he  would  appear 
before  them  at  one  of  their  meetings.  The  proceedings  being 
thus  opened,  Mr.  Falkland  expressed  his  hope  that,  if  the  busi- 
ness was  likely  to  stop  there,  their  investigation  might  at  least 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  747 

be  rendered  as  solemn  as  possible.  The  meeting  was  numerous  ; 
every  person  of  a  respectable  class  in  society  was  admitted  to  be 
an  auditor ;  the  whole  town,  one  of  the  most  considerable  in 
the  county,  was  apprised  of  the  nature  of  the  business.  Few 
trials,  invested  with  all  the  forms  of  judgment,  have  excited 
so  general  an  interest.  A  trial  under  the  present  circumstances 
was  scarcely  attainable ;  and  it  seemed  to  be  the  wish  both  of 
principal  and  umpires  to  give  to  this  transaction  all  the  momen- 
tary notoriety  and  decisiveness  of  a  trial. 

'The  magistrates  investigated  the  particulars  of  the  story. 
Mr.  Falkland,  it  appeared,  had  left  the  rooms  immediately  after 
his  assailant ;  and  though  he  had  been  attended  by  one  or  two 
of  the  gentlemen  to  the  inn,  it  was  proved  that  he  had  left  them 
upon  some  slight  occasion  as  soon  as  he  had  reached  it,  and  that, 
.when  they  inquired  for  him  of  the  waiters,  he  had  already 
mounted  his  horse  and  rode  home. 

'By  the  nature  of  the  case  no  particular  facts  could  be  stated 
in  balance  against  these.  As  soon  as  they  had  been  suflficiently 
detailed,  Mr.  Falkland,  therefore,  proceeded  to  his  defence. 
Several  copies  of  this  defence  were  made,  and  Mr.  Falkland 
seemed  for  a  short  time  to  have  had  the  idea  of  sending  it  to  the 
press,  though  for  some  reason  or  other  he  afterwards  suppressed 
it.  I  have  one  of  the  copies  in  my  possession,  and  I  will  read  it 
to  you.' 

Saying  this,  Mr.  Collins  rose  and  took  it  from  a  private 
drawer  in  his  escritoire.  During  this  action  he  appeared  to  recol- 
lect himself.  He  did  not,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  hesi- 
tate ;  but  he  was  prompted  to  make  some  apology  for  what  he 
was  doing. 

'  You  seem  never  to  have  heard  of  this  memorable  transaction ; 
and,  indeed,  that  is  little  to  be  wondered  at,  since  the  good  nature 
of  the  world  is  interested  in  suppressing  it,  and  it  is  deemed  a 
disgrace  to  a  man  to  have  defended  himself  from  a  criminal 
imputation,  though  with  circumstances  the  most  satisfactory 
and  honourable.  It  may  be  supposed  that  this  suppression  is 
particularly  acceptable  to  Mr.  Falkland ;  and  I  should  not  have 
acted  in  contradiction  to  his  modes  of  thinking  in  communicat- 
ing the  story  to  you  had  there  not  been  circumstances  of  peculiar 


748  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

urgency  that  seemed  to  render  the  communication  desirable.' 
Saying  this,  he  proceeded  to  read  from  the  paper  in  his  hand  :  — 

'"Gentlemen,  —  I  stand  here  accused  of  a  crime  the  most 
black  that  any  human  creature  is  capable  of  perpetrating.  I 
am  innocent.  I  have  no  fear  that  I  shall  fail  to  make  every  per- 
son in  this  company  acknowledge  my  innocence.  In  the  mean- 
time what  must  be  my  feelings  ?  Conscious  as  I  am  of  deserving 
approbation  and  not  censure,  of  having  passed  my  life  in  acts 
of  justice  and  philanthropy,  can  anything  be  more  deplorable 
than  for  me  to  answer  to  a  charge  of  murder?  So  wretched  is 
my  situation,  that  I  cannot  accept  your  gracious  acquittal  if 
you  should  be  disposed  to  bestow  it.  I  must  answer  to  an 
imputation  the  very  thought  of  which  is  ten  thousand  times 
worse  to  me  than  death.  I  must  exert  the  whole  energy  of  my 
mind  to  prevent  my  being  ranked  with  the  vilest  of  men. 

'"Gentlemen,  this  is  a  situation  in  which  a  man  may  be  al- 
lowed to  boast.  Accursed  situation  !  No  man  need  envy  me 
the  vile  and  polluted  triumph  I  am  now  to  gain  !  I  have  called 
no  witnesses  to  my  character.  Great  God  !  what  sort  of  char- 
acter is  that  which  must  be  supported  by  witnesses  ?  But,  if 
I  must  speak,  look  round  the  company,  ask  of  every  one  pres- 
ent, inquire  of  your  hearts  !  Not  one  word  of  reproach  was 
ever  whispered  against  my  character.  I  do  not  hesitate  to  call 
upon  those  who  have  known  me  most  to  afford  me  the  most 
honourable  testimony. 

'"My  Hfe  has  been  spent  in  the  keenest  and  most  uninter- 
mitted  sensibility  to  reputation.  I  am  almost  indifferent  as  to 
what  shall  be  the  event  of  this  day.  I  would  not  open  my 
mouth  on  the  occasion  if  my  life  were  the  only  thing  that  was  at 
stake.  It  is  not  in  the  power  of  your  decision  to  restore  to  me 
my  unblemished  reputation,  to  obliterate  the  disgrace  I  have 
suffered,  or  to  prevent  it  from  being  remembered  that  I  have 
been  brought  to  examination  upon  a  charge  of  murder.  Your 
decision  can  never  have  the  efficacy  to  prevent  the  miserable 
remains  of  my  existence  from  being  the  most  intolerable  of  all 
burthens. 

'"I  am  accused  of  having  committed  murder  upon  the  body  of 
Barnabas   Tyrrel.     I   would   most   joyfully   have   given   every 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB    WILLIAMS  749 

farthing  I  possess,  and  devoted  m^^self  to  perpetual  beggary, 
to  have  preserved  his  hfe.  His  hfe  was  precious  to  me  beyond 
that  of  all  mankind.  In  my  opinion  the  greatest  injustice  com- 
mitted by  his  unknown  assassin  was  that  of  defrauding  me  of 
my  just  revenge.  I  confess  that  I  would  have  called  him  out 
to  the  field,  and  that  our  encounter  should  not  have  terminated 
but  by  the  death  of  one  or  both  of  us.  This  would  have  been  a 
pitiful  and  inadequate  compensation  for  his  unparalleled  insult, 
but  it  was  all  that  remained. 

"'I  ask  for  no  pity,  but  I  must  openly  declare  that  never  was 
any  misfortune  so  horrible  as  mine.  I  would  willingly  have 
taken  refuge  from  the  recollection  of  that  night  in  a  voluntary 
death.  Life  was  now  stripped  of  all  those  recommendations 
for  the  sake  of  which  it  was  dear  to  me.  But  even  this  consola- 
tion is  denied  me.  I  am  compelled  to  drag  for  ever  the  intoler- 
able load  of  existence,  upon  penalty,  if  at  any  period,  however 
remote,  I  shake  it  off,  of  having  that  impatience  regarded  as 
confirming  a  charge  of  murder.  Gentlemen,  if  by  your  decision 
you  could  take  away  my  life  without  that  act  being  connected 
with  my  disgrace,  I  would  bless  the  cord  that  suspended  the 
breath  of  my  existence  for  ever. 

"'You  all  know  how  easily  I  might  have  fled  from  this  purga- 
tion. If  I  had  been  guilty,  should  I  not  have  embraced  the 
opportunity?  But,  as  it  was,  I  could  not.  Reputation  has 
been  the  idol,  the  jewel  of  my  life.  I  could  never  have  borne 
to  think  that  a  human  creature,  in  the  remotest  part  of  the 
globe,  should  beheve  that  I  was  a  criminal.  Alas  !  what  a  deity 
is  that  I  have  chosen  for  my  worship  !  I  have  entailed  upon 
myself  everlasting  agony  and  despair  ! 

'"I  have  but  one  word  to  add.  Gentlemen,  I  charge  you  to 
do  me  the  imperfect  justice  that  is  in  your  power  !  My  hfe  is 
worth  nothing.  But  my  honour,  the  paltry  remains  of  honour, 
I  have  now  to  boast,  is  in  your  judgment,  and  you  will  each  of 
you,  from  this  day,  have  imposed  upon  yourselves  the  task  of 
its  vindicators.  It  is  Httle  that  you  can  do  for  me,  but  it  is  not 
less  your  duty  to  do  that  httle.  May  that  God  who  is  the  foun- 
tain of  honour  and  good  prosper  and  protect  you  !  The  man 
who  now  stands  before  you  is  devoted  to  perpetual  barrenness 


750  WILLIAM    GODWIN 

and  blast !  He  has  nothing  to  hope  for  beyond  the  feeble  con- 
solation of  this  day  !"' 

'You  will  easily  imagine  that  Mr.  Falkland  was  discharged 
with  every  circumstance  of  honour.  Nothing  is  more  to  be 
deplored  in  human  institutions  than  that  the  ideas  of  mankind 
should  have  annexed  a  sentiment  of  disgrace  to  a  purgation  thus 
satisfactory  and  decisive.  No  one  entertained  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt  upon  the  subject,  and  yet  a  mere  concurrence  of  circum- 
stances made  it  necessary  that  the  best  of  men  should  be  pubUcly 
put  upon  his  defence,  as  if  really  under  suspicion  of  an  atrocious 
crime.  It  may  be  granted,  indeed,  that  Mr.  Falkland  had  his 
faults,  but  those  very  faults  placed  him  at  a  still  further  distance 
from  the  criminality  in  question.  He  was  the  fool  of  honour  and 
fame ;  a  man  whom  in  the  pursuit  of  reputation  nothing  could 
divert ;  who  would  have  purchased  the  character  of  a  true,  gal- 
lant and  undaunted  hero  at  the  expense  of  worlds,  and  who 
thought  every  calamity  nominal  but  a  stain  upon  his  honour. 
How  atrociously  absurd  to  suppose  any  motive  capable  of  induc- 
ing such  a  man  to  play  the  part  of  a  lurking  assassin  ?  How 
unfeeling  to  obhge  him  to  defend  himself  from  such  an  imputa- 
tion ?  Did  any  man,  and  least  of  all  a  man  of  the  purest  honour, 
ever  pass  in  a  moment  from  a  life  unstained  by  a  single  act  of 
injury  to  the  consummation  of  human  depravity  ? 

'When  the  decision  of  the  magistrates  was  declared,  a  general 
murmur  of  applause  and  involuntary  transport  burst  forth  from 
every  one  present.  It  was  at  first  low,  and  gradually  became 
louder.  As  it  was  the  expression  of  rapturous  dehght  and  an 
emotion  disinterested  and  divine,  so  there  was  an  indescribable 
something  in  the  very  sound  that  carried  it  home  to  the  heart, 
and  convinced  every  spectator  that  there  was  no  merely  personal 
pleasure  which  ever  existed  that  would  not  be  fooHsh  and  feeble 
in  the  comparison.  Every  one  strove  who  should  most  express 
his  esteem  of  the  amiable  accused.  Mr.  Falkland  was  no  sooner 
withdrawn  than  the  gentlemen  present  determined  to  give  a 
still  further  sanction  to  the  business  by  their  congratulations. 
They  immediately  named  a  deputation  to  wait  upon  him  for 
that  purpose.  Every  one  concurred  to  assist  the  general  senti- 
ment.    It  was  a  sort  of  sympathetic  feeling  that  took  hold  upon 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB    WILLIAMS  751 

all  ranks  and  degrees.  The  multitude  received  him  with  huzzas, 
they  took  his  horses  from  his  carriage,  dragged  him  in  triumph, 
and  attended  him  many  miles  in  his  return  to  his  own  habita- 
tion. It  seemed  as  if  a  public  examination  upon  a  criminal 
charge,  which  had  hitherto  been  considered  in  every  event 
as  a  brand  of  disgrace,  was  converted,  in  the  present  instance, 
into  an  occasion  of  enthusiastic  adoration  and  unexampled 
honour. 

'Nothing  could  reach  the  heart  of  Mr.  Falkland.  He  was  not 
insensible  to  the  general  kindness  and  exertions ;  but  it  was  too 
evident  that  the  melancholy  that  had  taken  hold  of  his  mind 
was  invincible. 

'It  was  only  a  few  weeks  after  this  memorable  scene  that  the 
real  murderer  was  discovered.  Every  part  of  this  story  was 
extraordinary.  The  real  murderer  was  Hawkins.  He  was 
found  with  his  son  under  a  feigned  name  at  a  village  about 
thirty  miles  distance,  in  want  of  all  the  necessaries  of  hfe.  He 
had  lived  here  from  the  period  of  his  flight  in  so  private  a  manner, 
that  all  the  inquiries  that  had  been  set  on  foot  by  the  benevolence 
of  Mr.  Falkland  or  the  insatiable  malice  of  Mr.  Tyrrel  had  been 
insufficient  to  discover  him.  The  first  thing  that  had  led  to  the 
detection  was  a  parcel  of  clothes  covered  with  blood  that  were 
found  in  a  ditch,  and  which,  when  drawn  out,  were  known  by 
the  people  of  the  village  to  belong  to  this  man.  The  murder  of 
Mr,  Tyrrel  was  not  a  circumstance  that  could  be  unknown,  and 
suspicion  was  immediately  roused.  A  dihgent  search  being 
made,  the  rusty  handle  with  part  of  the  blade  of  a  knife  was  found 
thrown  in  a  corner  of  his  lodging,  which,  being  applied  to  the 
piece  of  the  point  of  a  knife  that  had  been  broken  in  the  wound, 
appeared  exactly  to  correspond.  Upon  further  inquiry,  two 
rustics,  who  had  been  accidentally  on  the  spot,  remembered  to 
have  seen  Hawkins  and  his  son  in  the  town  that  very  evening, 
and  to  have  called  after  them,  and  received  no  answer,  though 
they  were  sure  of  their  persons.  Upon  this  accumulated  evi- 
dence both  Hawkins  and  his  son  were  tried,  condemned,  and 
executed.  In  the  interval  between  the  sentence  and  execution, 
Hawkins  confessed  his  guilt,  with  many  marks  of  compunction, 
though  there  are  persons  by  whom  this  is  denied ;    but  I  have 


752  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

taken  some  pains  to  inquire  into  the  fact,  and  am  persuaded 
that  their  disbeHef  is  precipitate  and  groundless. 

'The  cruel  injustice  that  this  man  had  suffered  from  his  vil- 
lage tyrant  was  not  forgotten  upon  the  present  occasion.  It 
was  by  a  strange  fataUty  that  the  barbarous  proceedings  of 
Mr.  Tyrrel  seemed  never  to  fall  short  of  their  completion ;  and 
even  his  death  served  eventually  to  consummate  the  ruin  of  a 
man  he  hated,  a  circumstance  which,  if  it  could  have  come  to 
his  knowledge,  would  perhaps  have,  in  some  measure,  consoled 
him  for  his  untimely  end.  This  poor  Hawkins  v^'ds  certainly 
entitled  to  some  pity,  since  his  being  finally  urged  to  despera- 
tion, and  brought,  together  with  his  son,  to  an  ignominious 
fate,  was  originally  owing  to  the  sturdiness  of  his  virtue  and 
independence.  But  the  compassion  of  the  public  was,  in  a  great 
measure,  shut  against  him,  as  they  thought  it  a  piece  of  barbarous 
and  unpardonable  selfishness  that  he  had  not  rather  come  boldly 
forward  to  meet  the  consequences  of  his  own  conduct  than  suffer 
a  man  of  so  much  public  worth  as  Mr.  Falkland,  and  who  had 
been  so  desirous  of  doing  him  good,  to  be  exposed  to  the  risk  of 
being  tried  for  a  murder  that  he  had  committed. 

'  From  this  time  to  the  present  Mr.  Falkland  has  been  nearly 
such  as  you  at  present  see  him.  Though  it  be  several  years 
since  these  transactions,  the  impression  they  made  is  for  ever 
fresh  in  the  mind  of  our  unfortunate  patron.  From  thencefor- 
ward his  habits  became  totally  different.  He  had  before  been 
fond  of  public  scenes,  and  acting  a  part  in  the  midst  of  the  people 
among  whom  he  immediately  resided.  He  now  made  himself 
a  rigid  recluse.  He  had  no  associates,  no  friends.  Inconsolable 
himself,  he  yet  wished  to  treat  others  with  kindness.  There  was 
a  solemn  sadness  in  his  manner,  attended  with  the  most  perfect 
gentleness  and  humanity.  Everybody  respects  him,  for  his 
benevolence  is  unalterable ;  but  there  is  a  stately  coldness  and 
reserve  in  his  behaviour  which  makes  it  diflS.cult  for  those  about 
him  to  regard  him  with  the  familiarity  of  affection.  These 
symptoms  are  uninterrupted,  except  at  certain  times  when  his 
sufferings  become  intolerable,  and  he  displays  the  marks  of  a 
furious  insanity.  At  those  times  his  language  is  fearful  and 
mysterious,  and  he  seems  to  figure  to  himself  by  turns  every  sort 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  753 

of  persecution  and  alarm  which  may  be  supposed  to  attend  upon 
such  an  accusation  of  murder.  But,  sensible  of  his  own  weak- 
ness, he  is  anxious  at  such  times  to  withdraw  into  solitude; 
and  his  domestics  in  general  know  nothing  of  him  but  the  un- 
communicative and  haughty,  but  mild  dejection  that  accom- 
panies  everything  he  does.' 


The  period  at  which  my  story  is  now  arrived  seemed  as  if  it 
were  the  very  crisis  of  the  fortune  of  Mr.  Falkland.  Incident 
followed  upon  incident  in  a  kind  of  breathless  succession.  About 
nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  an  alarm  was  given  that  one  of  the 
chimneys  of  the  house  was  on  fire.  No  accident  could  be  appar- 
ently more  trivial ;  but  presently  it  blazed  with  such  fury  as 
to  make  it  clear  that  some  beam  of  the  house,  which  in  the  first 
building  had  been  improperly  placed,  had  been  reached  by  the 
flames.  Some  danger  was  apprehended  for  the  whole  edifice. 
The  confusion  was  the  greater  in  consequence  of  the  absence  of 
the  master,  as  well  as  of  Mr.  Colhns,  the  steward.  While  some 
of  the  domestics  were  employed  in  endeavouring  to  extinguish 
the  flames,  it  was  thought  proper  that  others  should  busy  them- 
selves in  removing  the  most  valuable  movables  to  a  lawn  in  the 
garden.  I  took  some  command  in  the  affair,  to  which  indeed 
my  station  in  the  family  seemed  to  entitle  me,  and  for  which 
I  was  thought  quahfied  by  my  understanding  and  mental  re- 
sources. 

Having  given  some  general  directions,  I  conceived  that  it  was 
not  enough  to  stand  by  and  superintend,  but  that  I  should 
contribute  my  personal  labour  in  the  public  concern.  I  set  out 
for  that  purpose,  and  my  steps  by  some  mysterious  fatality  were 
directed  to  the  private  apartment  at  the  end  of  the  library. 
Here,  as  I  looked  round,  my  eye  was  suddenly  caught  by  the 
trunk  mentioned  in  the  first  pages  of  my  narrative. 

My  mind  was  already  raised  to  its  utmost  pitch.  In  a  window- 
seat  of  the  room  lay  a  parcel  of  chisels  and  other  carpenter's 
tools.  I  know  not  what  infatuation  instantaneously  seized  me. 
The  idea  was  too  powerful  to  be  resisted.  I  forgot  the  busi- 
ness upon  which  I  came,  the  employment  of  the  servants  and  the 


754 


WILLIAM   GODWIN 


urgency  of  general  danger.  I  should  have  done  the  same  if  the 
apartment  round  me  had  been  in  flames.  I  snatched  a  tool 
suitable  for  the  purpose,  threw  myself  upon  the  ground,  and 
appHed  with  eagerness  to  a  magazine  which  enclosed  all  for  which 
my  heart  panted.  After  two  or  three  efforts,  in  which  the  energy 
of  uncontrollable  passion  was  added  to  my  bodily  strength,  the 
fastenings  gave  way,  the  trunk  opened,  and  all  that  I  sought 
was  at  once  within  my  reach. 

I  was  in  the  act  of  lifting  up  the  lid,  when  Mr.  Falkland  en- 
tered, wild,  breathless,  distraction  in  his  Ijoks  !  He  had  been 
brought  home  from  a  considerable  distance  by  the  sight  of  the 
flames.  At  the  moment  of  his  appearance  the  Ud  dropped 
down  from  my  hand.  He  no  sooner  saw  me  than  his  eyes  emitted 
sparks  of  rage.  He  ran  with  eagerness  to  a  brace  of  loaded 
pistols  which  hung  up  in  the  room,  and  seizing  one,  presented 
it  to  my  head.  I  saw  his  design,  and  sprang  to  avoid  it ;  but 
with  the  same  rapidity  with  which  he  had  formed  his  resolution 
he  changed  it,  and  instantly  went  to  the  window  and  flung  the 
pistol  into  the  court  below.  He  bade  me  begone  with  his  usual 
irresistible  energy ;  and,  overcome  as  I  was  already  by  the  horror 
of  the  detection,  I  eagerly  complied. 

A  moment  after  a  considerable  part  of  the  chimney  tumbled 
with  noise  into  the  court  below,  and  a  voice  exclaimed  that  the 
fire  was  more  violent  than  ever.  These  circumstances  seemed  to 
produce  a  mechanical  effect  upon  my  master,  who,  having  first 
locked  the  closet,  appeared  on  the  outside  of  the  house,  ascended 
the  roof,  and  was  in  a  moment  in  every  place  where  his  presence 
was  required.     The  flames  were  presently  extinguished. 

The  reader  can  with  difficulty  form  a  conception  of  the  state 
to  which  I  was  now  reduced.  My  act  was  in  some  sort  an  act 
of  insanity ;  but  how  undescribable  are  the  feehngs  with  which 
I  looked  back  upon  it ! 

In  the  high  tide  of  boiling  passion  I  had  overlooked  all  conse- 
quences. It  now  appeared  to  me  Hke  a  dream.  Is  it  in  man 
to  leap  from  the  high-raised  precipice,  or  rush  unconcerned  into 
the  midst  of  flames  ?  Was  it  possible  I  could  have  forgotten  for 
a  moment  the  awe-creating  manners  of  Falkland,  and  the  inex- 
orable fury  I  should  awake  in  his  soul  ?     No  thought  of  future 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  755 

security  had  reached  my  mind.  I  had  acted  upon  no  plan.  I 
had  conceived  no  means  of  conceahng  my  deed  after  it  had  once 
been  effected.  But  it  was  over  now.  One  short  minute  had 
effected  a  reverse  in  my  situation,  the  suddenness  of  which  the 
history  of  man  perhaps  is  unable  to  pass. 

I  had  now  everything  to  fear.  And  yet  what  was  my  fault  ? 
It  proceeded  from  none  of  those  errors  which  are  justly  held 
up  to  the  aversion  of  mankind  ;  my  object  had  been  neither 
wealth,  nor  the  means  of  indulgence,  nor  the  usurpation  of 
power.  No  spark  of  malignity  had  harboured  in  my  soul.  I 
had  always  reverenced  the  sublime  mind  of  Mr.  Falkland ;  I 
revered  it  still.  My  offence  had  merely  been  a  mistaken  thirst 
of  knowledge.  Such,  however,  it  was  as  to  admit  neither  of 
forgiveness  nor  remission.  This  epoch  was  the  crisis  of  my 
fate  dividing  what  may  be  called  the  offensive  part  from  the 
defensive,  which  was  the  sole  business  of  my  remaining  years. 
Alas  !  my  offence  was  short,  not  aggravated  by  any  sinister 
intention :  but  the  reprisals  I  was  to  suffer  are  long,  and  can 
terminate  only  with  my  life  ! 

I  was  still  in  this  situation  of  mind  when  Mr.  Falkland  sent 
for  me. 

I  found  in  him  every  token  of  extreme  distress,  except  that 
there  was  an  air  of  solemn  and  sad  composure  that  crowned  the 
whole.  For  the  present  all  appearance  of  gloom,  statehness, 
and  austerity  was  gone.  As  I  entered  he  looked  up,  and  seeing 
who  it  was,  ordered  me  to  bolt  the  door.  I  obeyed.  He  him- 
self went  round  the  room  and  examined  all  its  other  avenues. 
He  then  returned  to  where  I  was.  I  trembled  in  every  joint 
of  my  frame. 


'You  must  swear,'  said  he.  'You  must  attest  every  sacra- 
ment, divine  and  human,  never  to  disclose  what  I  am  now  to 
tell  you.'  —  He  dictated  the  oath,  and  I  repeated  it  with  an 
aching  heart.     I  had  no  power  to  offer  a  word  of  remark. 

'This  confidence,'  said  he,  'is  of  your  seeking,  not  of  mine. 
It  is  odious  to  me,  as  it  is  dangerous  to  you.' 

Having  thus  prefaced  the  disclosure  he  had  to  make  he  paused. 


756  WILLIAM    GODWIN 

He  seemed  to  collect  himself  as  for  an  effort  of  magnitude.  He 
wiped  his  face  with  his  handkerchief.  The  moisture  that 
incommoded  him  appeared  not  to  be  tears,  but  sweat. 

'Look  at  me.  Observe  me.  Is  it  not  strange  that  such  a 
one  as  I  should  retain  Hneaments  of  a  human  creature  ?  I  am 
the  blackest  of  villains.  I  am  the  murderer  of  Tyrrel.  I  am 
the  assassin  of  the  Hawkinses.' 

I  started  with  terror,  but  was  silent. 

'  What  a  story  is  mine  !  Insulted,  disgraced,  polluted  in  the 
face  of  hundreds,  I  was  capable  of  any  act  of  desperation.  I 
watched  my  opportunity,  followed  Mr.  Tyrrel  from  the  rooms, 
seized  a  sharp-pointed  knife  that  fell  in  my  way,  came  behind 
him,  and  stabbed  him  to  the  heart.  My  gigantic  oppressor 
rolled  at  my  feet. 

'All  are  but  links  of  one  chain.  A  blow  !  A  murder  !  My 
next  business  was  to  defend  myself,  to  tell  so  well-digested  a 
lie  as  that  all  mankind  should  beHeve  it  true.  Never  was  a 
task  so  harrowing  and  intolerable  ! 

'  Well :  thus  far  fortune  favoured  me.  She  favoured  me  be- 
yond my  desire.  The  guilt  was  removed  from  me  and  cast 
upon  another ;  but  this  I  was  to  endure.  Whence  came  the 
circumstantial  evidence  against  him,  the  broken  knife  and 
the  blood,  I  am  unable  to  tell.  I  suppose  by  some  miraculous 
accident  he  was  passing  by,  and  endeavoured  to  assist  his  oppres- 
sor in  the  agonies  of  death.  You  have  heard  Hawkins's  story : 
you.  have  read  one  of  his  letters.  But  you  do  not  know  the 
thousandth  part  of  the  proofs  of  his  simple  and  unalterable 
rectitude  that  I  have  known.  His  son  suffered  with  him,  that 
son  for  the  sake  of  whose  happiness  and  virtue  he  ruined  himself, 

and  would  have  died  a  hundred  times. I  have  had  feelings, 

but  I  cannot  describe  them. 

'  This  it  is  to  be  a  gentleman  !  a  man  of  honour  !  I  was  the 
fool  of  fame.  My  virtue,  my  honesty,  my  everlasting  peace  of 
mind  were  cheap  sacrifices  to  be  made  at  the  shrine  of  this 
divinity.  But  what  is  worse,  there  is  nothing  that  has  hap- 
pened that  has  in  any  degree  contributed  to  my  cure.  I  am  as 
much  the  fool  of  fame  as  ever.  I  cling  to  it  as  to  my  last  breath. 
Though  I  be  the  blackest  of  villains,  I  will  leave  behind  me  a 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  757 

spotless  and  illustrious  name.  There  is  no  crime  so  malignant, 
no  scene  of  blood  so  horrible,  in  which  that  object  cannot  engage 
me.     It  is  no  matter  that  I  regard  these  things  at  a  distance 

with  aversion ; I  am  sure  of  it ;   bring  me  to  the  test,  and  I 

shall  yield.  I  despise  myself ;  but  thus  I  am  ;  things  are  gone 
too  far  to  be  recalled. 

'  Why  is  it  that  I  am  compelled  to  this  confidence  ?  From 
the  love  of  fame.  I  should  tremble  at  the  sight  of  every  pistol, 
or  instrument  of  death  that  offered  itself  to  my  hands:  and 
perhaps  my  next  murder  may  not  be  so  fortunate  as  those  I  have 
already  committed.  I  had  no  alternative  but  to  make  you 
my  confidant  or  my  victim.  It  was  better  to  trust  you  with 
the  whole  truth. 


'Do  you  know  what  it  is  you  have  done?  To  gratify  a 
foolish  inquisitive  humour  you  have  sold  yourself.  You  shall 
continue  in  my  service,  but  can  never  share  in  my  affection.  I 
will  benefit  you  in  respect  of  fortune,  but  I  shall  always  hate 
you.  If  ever  an  unguarded  word  escape  from  your  Hps,  if  ever 
you  excite  my  jealousy  or  suspicion,  expect  to  pay  for  it  by  your 
death  or  worse.  It  is  a  dear  bargain  you  have  made.  But  it 
is  too  late  to  look  back.  I  charge  and  adjure  you,  by  everything 
that  is  sacred  and  that  is  tremendous,  preserve  your  faith  ! ' 

Such  was  the  story  I  had  been  so  desirous  to  know.  Though 
my  mind  had  brooded  upon  the  subject  for  months,  there  was 
not  a  syllable  of  it  that  did  not  come  to  my  ear  with  the  most 
perfect  sense  of  novelty.  'Mr.  Falkland  is  a  murderer  !'  said  I, 
as  I  retired  from  the  conference.  This  dreadful  appellative  'a 
murderer,'  made  my  very  blood  run  cold  within  me.  'He  killed 
Mr.  Tyrrel,  for  he  could  not  control  his  resentment  and  anger : 
he  sacrificed  Hawkins  the  elder  and  Hawkins  the  younger,  be- 
cause he  could  upon  no  terms  endure  the  public  loss  of  honour : 
how  can  I  expect  that  a  man  thus  passionate  and  unrelenting 
will  not  sooner  or  later  make  me  his  victim  ? ' 

But  though  the  terrors  which  had  impressed  me  were  con- 
siderably alleviated,  my  situation  was  notwithstanding  suffi- 
ciently miserable.     The  ease  and  lightheartedness  of  my  youth 


758  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

were  for  ever  gone.  The  voice  of  an  irresistible  necessity  had 
commanded  me  to  'sleep  no  more.'  I  was  tormented  with  a 
secret  of  which  I  must  never  disburthen  myself ;  and  this  con- 
sciousness was  at  my  age  a  source  of  perpetual  melancholy.  I 
had  made  myself  a  prisoner,  in  the  most  intolerable  sense  of 
that  term,  for  years,  perhaps  for  the  remainder  of  my  life. 
Though  my  prudence  and  discretion  should  be  invariable,  I 
must  remember  that  I  should  have  an  overseer,  vigilant  from 
conscious  guilt,  full  of  resentment  at  the  unjustifiable  means 
by  which  I  had  extorted  from  him  a  confession,  and  whose  light- 
est caprice  might  at  any  time  decide  upon  everything  that  was 
dear  to  me.  The  vigilance  even  of  a  public  and  systematical 
despotism  is  poor  compared  with  a  vigilance  which  is  thus 
goaded  by  the  most  anxious  passions  of  the  soul.  Against  this 
species  of  persecution  I  knew  not  how  to  invent  a  refuge.  I 
dared  neither  fly  from  the  observation  of  Mr.  Falkland,  nor  con- 
tinue exposed  to  its  operation.  I  was  at  first  indeed  lulled  in  a 
certain  degree  to  security  upon  the  verge  of  the  precipice.  But 
it  was  not  long  before  I  found  a  thousand  circumstances  perpet- 
ually reminding  me  of  my  true  situation.  Those  I  am  now  to 
relate  are  among  the  most  memorable. 


I  looked  round  on  the  servants  who  had  been  the  spectators  of 
my  examination,  but  not  one  of  them,  either  byword  or  gesture, 
expressed  any  compassion  for  my  calamity.  The  robbery  of 
which  I  was  accused  appeared  to  them  atrocious  from  its  magni- 
tude ;  and  whatever  sparks  of  compassion  might  otherwise  have 
sprung  up  in  their  ingenuous  and  undiscipUned  minds  were  totally 
obKterated  by  indignation  at  my  supposed  profligacy  in  recrimi- 
nating upon  their  worthy  and  excellent  master.  My  fate  being 
already  determined,  and  one  of  the  servants  despatched  for  the 
officer,  Mr.  Forester  and  Mr.  Falkland  withdrew,  and  left  me  in 
the  custody  of  two  others. 


It  was  not  much  longer  before  everything  was  prepared  for 
my  departure,  and  I  was  conducted  to  the  same  prison  which  had 


ADVENTURES  OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  759 

so  lately  enclosed  the  wretched  and  innocent  Hawkinses.  They 
too  had  been  the  victims  of  Mr.  Falkland.  He  exhibited,  upon 
a  contracted  scale  indeed,  but  in  which  the  truth  of  delineation 
was  faithfully  sustained,  a  copy  of  what  monarchs  are  who 
reckon  among  the  instruments  of  their  power  prisons  of  state. 

For  my  own  part,  I  had  never  seen  a  prison,  and  Hke  the  ma- 
jority of  my  brethren  had  given  myself  little  care  to  inquire 
what  was  the  condition  of  those  who  committed  offence  against, 
or  became  obnoxious  to  suspicion  from,  the  community.  Oh, 
how  enviable  is  the  most  tottering  shed  under  which  the  labourer 
retires  to  rest  compared  with  the  residence  of  these  walls  ! 

To  me  everything  was  new :  the  massy  doors,  the  resounding 
locks,  the  gloomy  passages,  the  grated  windows,  and  the  char- 
acteristic looks  of  the  keepers,  accustomed  to  reject  every  pe- 
tition, and  to  steel  their  hearts  against  feeling  and  pity.  Curi- 
osity and  a  sense  of  my  situation  induced  me  to  fix  my  eyes  on 
the  faces  of  these  men,  but  in  a  few  minutes  I  drew  them  away 
with  unconquerable  loathing.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the 
sort  of  squalidness  and  filth  with  which  these  mansions  are  dis- 
tinguished. I  have  seen  dirty  faces  in  dirty  apartments  which 
have  nevertheless  borne  the  impression  of  health,  and  spoke 
carelessness  and  levity  rather  than  distress.  But  the  dirt  of  a 
prison  speaks  sadness  to  the  heart,  and  appears  to  be  already  in 
a  state  of  putridity  and  infection. 

I  was  detained  for  more  than  an  hour  in  the  apartment  of  the 
keeper,  one  turnkey  after  another  coming  in,  that  they  might 
make  themselves  familiar  with  my  person.  As  I  was  already 
considered  as  guilty  of  felony  to  a  considerable  amount,  I  under- 
went a  rigorous  search,  and  they  took  from  me  a  penknife,  a 
pair  of  scissors,  and  that  part  of  my  money  which  was  in  gold. 
It  was  debated  whether  or  not  these  should  be  sealed  up,  to  be 
returned  to  me,  as  they  said,  as  soon  as  I  should  be  acquitted ; 
and  had  I  not  displayed  an  unexpected  firmness  of  manner  and 
vigour  of  expostulation,  such  was  the  conduct  that  would  have 
been  pursued.  Having  undergone  these  ceremonies,  I  was 
thrust  into  a  day-room,  in  which  all  the  persons  then  under 
confinement  for  felony  were  assembled  to  the  number  of  eleven. 
Each  of  them  was  too  much  engaged  in  his  own  reflections  to 


76o  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

take  notice  of  me.  Of  these  two  were  imprisoned  for  horse- 
stealing, and  three  for  having  stolen  a  sheep,  one  for  shop-hfting, 
one  for  coining,  two  for  highway-robbery,  and  two  for  burglary. 

The  horse-stealers  were  engaged  in  a  game  at  cards,  which  was 
presently  interrupted  by  a  difference  of  opinion,  attended  with 
great  vociferation,  they  calling  upon  one  and  another  to  decide 
it  to  no  purpose,  one  paying  no  attention  to  their  summons,  and 
another  leaving  them  in  the  midst  of  their  story,  being  no  longer 
able  to  endure  his  own  internal  anguish  in  the  midst  of  their 
mummery. 

It  is  a  custom  among  thieves  to  constitute  a  sort  of  mock  tri- 
bunal of  their  own  body,  from  whose  decision  every  one  is  in- 
formed whether  he  shall  be  acquitted,  respited,  or  pardoned,  as 
well  as  the  most  skilful  way  of  conducting  his  defence.  One  of 
the  house-breakers,  who  had  already  passed  this  ordeal,  was 
stalking  up  and  down  the  room  with  a  forced  bravery,  exclaiming 
to  his  companion  that  he  was  as  rich  as  the  Duke  of  Bedford 
himself.  He  had  five  guineas  and  a  half,  which  was  as  much  as 
he  could  possibly  spend  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  month,  and 
what  happened  after  that  it  was  Jack  Ketch's  business  to  see  to, 
not  his.  As. he  uttered  these  words  he  threw  himself  abruptly 
upon  a  bench  that  was  near  him,  and  seemed  to  be  asleep  in  a 
moment.  But  his  sleep  was  uneasy  and  disturbed,  his  breathing 
was  hard,  and,  at  intervals,  had  rather  the  nature  of  a  groan.  •  A 
young  fellow  from  the  other  side  of  the  room  came  softly  to  the 
place  where  he  lay,  with  a  large  knife  in  his  hand,  and  pressed 
the  back  of  it  with  such  violence  upon  his  neck,  the  head  hanging 
over  the  side  of  the  bench,  that  it  was  not  till  after  several  efforts 
that  he  was  able  to  rise.  '  Oh,  Jack  ! '  cried  this  manual  jester, 
'  I  had  almost  done  your  business  for  you  ! '  The  other  expressed 
no  marks  of  resentment,  but  sullenly  answered,  'D— — n  you, 
why  did  not  you  take  the  edge  ?  It  would  have  been  the  best 
thing  you  have  done  this  many  a  day  ? '  ^ 

The  case  of  one  of  the  persons  committed  for  highway-robbery 
was  not  a  little  singular.  He  was  a  common  soldier,  of  a  most 
engaging  physiognomy,  and  two-and-twenty  years  of  age.     The 

1  An  incident  exactly  similar  to  this  was  witnessed  by  a  friend  of  the  author  in  a  visit 
to  the  prison  of  Newgate.     [Author's  note.] 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  761 

prosecutor  who  had  been  robbed  one  evening  as  he  returned  from 
the  ale-house  of  the  sum  of  three  shilHngs,  swore  positively  to 
his  person.  The  character  of  the  prisoner  was  such  as  has  seldom 
been  equalled.  The  meanness  of  his  condition  did  not  preclude 
him  from  the  pursuit  of  intellectual  cultivation ;  and  he  drew 
his  favourite  amusement  from  the  works  of  Virgil  and  Horace. 
His  integrity  had  been  proverbially  great.  In  one  instance  he 
had  been  employed  by  a  lady  to  convey  a  sum  of  a  thousand 
pounds  to  a  person  at  some  miles'  distance ;  at  another  he  was 
entrusted  by  a  gentleman,  during  his  absence,  with  the  care  of 
his  house  and  furniture,  to  the  value  of  at  least  five  times  that 
sum.  His  habits  of  thinking  were  pecuUar,  full  of  justice,  sim- 
plicity, and  wisdom.  He  from  time  to  time  earned  money  of 
his  officers  by  his  pecuHar  excellence  in  furbishing  arms ;  but  he 
dechned  offers  that  had  been  made  him  to  become  a  serjeant  or  a 
corporal,  saying,  that  he  did  not  want  money,  and  that,  in  a  new 
situation,  he  should  have  less  leisure  for  study.  He  was  equally 
constant  in  refusing  presents  that  were  offered  him  by  persons 
that  had  been  struck  with  his  merit :  not  that  he  was  under  the 
influence  of  false  delicacy  and  pride,  but  that  his  conscience 
would  not  ahow  him  to  accept  that,  the  want  of  which  he  did  not 
feel  to  be  an  evil.  This  man  died  while  I  was  in  prison.  I  re- 
ceived his  last  breath.^ 

The  whole  day  I  was  obliged  to  spend  in  the  company  of  these 
men,  some  of  them  having  really  committed  the  actions  laid  to 
their  charge,  others  whom  their  ill-fortune  had  rendered  the  vic- 
tims of  suspicion.  The  whole  was  a  scene  of  misery,  such  as 
nothing  short  of  actual  observation  can  suggest  to  the  mind. 
Some  were  noisy  and  obstreperous,  endeavouring  by  a  false 
bravery  to  keep  at  bay  the  rem'embrance  of  their  condition ; 
while  others,  incapable  even  of  this  effort,  had  the  torment  of 
their  thoughts  aggravated  by  the  perpetual  noise  and  confusion 
that  prevailed  around  them.  In  the  faces  of  those  who  assumed 
the  most  courage  you  might  trace  the  furrows  of  anxious  care ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  their  laboured  hilarity  dreadful  ideas  would 
ever  and  anon  intrude,  convulsing  their  features  and  working 

'  A  story  extremely  similar  to  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  Newgate  Calendar,  vol.  i.,  p.  382. 
[Author's  note.] 


762  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

every  line  into  an  expression  of  the  keenest  agony.  To  these 
men  the  sun  brought  no  return  of  joy.  Day  after  day  rolled  on, 
but  their  state  was  immutable.  Existence  was  to  them  a  theatre 
of  invariable  melancholy ;  every  moment  was  a  moment  of 
anguish,  yet  did  they  wish  to  prolong  that  moment,  fearful  that 
the  coming  period  would  bring  a  severer  fate.  They  thought 
of  the  past  with  insupportable  repentance,  each  man  contented 
to  give  his  right  hand  to  have  again  the  choice  of  that  peace  and 
liberty  which  he  had  unthinkingly  bartered  away.  We  talk  of 
instruments  of  torture ;  Englishmen  take  credit  to  themselves 
for  having  banished  the  use  of  them  from  their  happy  shores  ! 
Alas,  he  that  has  observed  the  secrets  of  a  prison  well  knows 
that  there  is  more  torture  in  the  Ungering  existence  of  a  criminal, 
in  the  silent,  intolerable  minutes  that  he  spends  than  in  the  tan- 
gible misery  of  whips  and  racks  ! 

Such  were  our  days.  At  sunset  our  jailors  appeared,  and 
ordered  each  man  to  come  away  and  be  locked  into  his  dungeon. 
It  was  a  bitter  aggravation  of  our  fate  to  be  under  the  arbitrary 
control  of  these  fellows.  They  felt  no  man's  sorrow  ;  they  were 
of  all  men  least  capable  of  any  sort  of  feeling.  They  had  a  bar- 
barous and  sullen  pleasure  in  issuing  their  detested  mandates, 
and  observing  the  mournful  reluctance  with  which  they  were 
obeyed.  Whatever  they  directed,  it  was  in  vain  to  expostulate ; 
fetters  and  bread  and  water  were  the  sure  consequences  of 
resistance.  Their  tyranny  had  no  other  limit  than  their  own 
caprice.  To  whom  shall  the  unfortunate  felon  appeal  ?  To 
what  purpose  complain,  when  his  complaints  are  sure  to  be 
received  with  incredulity  ?  A  tale  of  mutiny  and  necessary  pre- 
caution is  the  unfaihng  refuge  of  the  keeper,  and  this  tale  is  an 
everlasting  bar  against  redress. 

Our  dungeons  were  cells  7^  feet  by  6|,  below  the  surface  of 
the  ground,  damp,  without  window,  light,  or  air,  except  from 
a  few  holes  worked  for  that  purpose  in  the  door.  In  some  of 
these  miserable  receptacles  three  persons  were  put  to  sleep  to- 
gether.^ I  was  fortunate  enough  to  have  one  to  myself.  It 
was  now  the  approach  of  winter.  We  were  not  allowed  to  have 
candles ;  and,  as  I  have  already  said,  were  thrust  in  here  at  sun- 

'  See  Howard  on  Prisons.     [Author's  note.] 


ADVENTURES  OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  763 

set  and  not  liberated  till  the  returning  day.  This  was  our  situa- 
tion for  fourteen  or  fifteen  hours  out  of  the  four-and-twenty. 
I  had  never  been  accustomed  to  sleep  more  than  six  or  seven 
hours,  and  my  inclination  to  sleep  was  now  less  than  ever.  Thus 
was  I  reduced  to  spend  half  my  day  in  this  dreary  abode,  and 
in  complete  darkness.  This  was  no  trifling  aggravation  of 
my  lot. 

Among  my  melancholy  reflections  I  tasked  my  memory  and 
counted  over  the  doors,  the  locks,  the  bolts,  the  chains,  the 
massy  walls,  and  grated  windows  that  were  between  me  and 
liberty.  'These,'  said  I,  'are  the  engines  that  tyranny  sits  down 
in  cold  and  serious  meditation  to  invent.  This  is  the  empire 
that  man  exercises  over  man.  Thus  is  a  human  being,  formed 
to  expatiate,  to  act,  to  smile  and  enjoy,  restricted  and  benumbed. 
How  great  must  be  his  depravity,  or  heedlessness,  who  vindicates 
this  scheme  for  changing  health  and  gaiety,  and  serenity,  into 
the  wanness  of  a  dungeon,  and  the  deep  furrows  of  agony  and 
despair ! ' 

'Thank  God,'  exclaims  the  EngHshman,  'we  have  no  Bastille  ! 
Thank  God,  with  us  no  man  can  be  punished  without  a  crime  ! ' 
Unthinking  wretch  !  is  that  a  country  of  liberty  where  thousands 
languish  in  dungeons  and  fetters  ?  Go,  go,  ignorant  fool !  and 
visit  the  scenes  of  our  prisons  !  witness  their  unwholesomeness, 
their  filth,  the  tyranny  of  their  governors,  the  misery  of  their 
inmates  !  After  that  show  me  the  man  shameless  enough  to 
triumph,  and  say  England  has  no  Bastille  !  Is  there  any  charge 
so  frivolous  upon  which  men  are  not  consigned  to  these  detested 
abodes  ?  Is  there  any  villainy  that  is  not  practised  by  justices 
and  prosecutors  ?  But  against  all  this  perhaps  you  have  been 
told  there  is  redress.  Yes,  a  redress  that  is  the  consummation 
of  insult  so  much  as  to  name  !  Where  shall  the  poor  wretch, 
reduced  to  the  last  despair,  and  to  whom  acquittal  perhaps 
just  comes  time  enough  to  save  him  from  perishing,  —  where 
shall  this  man  find  leisure,  and  much  less  money,  to  fee  counsel 
and  officers,  and  purchase  the  tedious,  dear-bought  remedy  of 
the  law?  No,  he  is  too  happy  to  leave  the  dungeon  and  the 
memory  of  his  dungeon  behind  him ;  and  the  same  tyranny  and 
wanton  oppression  become  the  inheritance  of  his  successor. 


764  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

For  myself  I  looked  round  upon  my  walls,  and  forward  upon 
the  premature  death  I  had  too  much  reason  to  expect;  I  con- 
sulted my  own  heart  that  whispered  nothing  but  innocence ;  and 
I  said,  'This  is  society.  This  is  the  object,  the  distribution  of 
justice,  which  is  the  end  of  human  reason.  For  this  sages  have 
toiled,  and  the  midnight  oil  has  been  wasted.     This  !' 

The  reader  will  forgive  this  digression  from  the  immediate 
subject  of  my  story.  If  it  should  be  said  these  are  general  re- 
marks, let  it  be  remembered  that  they  are  the  dear-bought  result 
of  experience.  It  is  from  the  fulness  of  a  bursting  heart  that 
invective  thus  flows  to  my  pen.  These  are  not  the  declamations 
of  a  man  desirous  to  be  eloquent.  I  have  felt  the  iron  of  slavery 
grating  upon  my  soul. 

I  beUeved  that  misery  more  pure  than  that  which  I  now  en- 
dured had  never  fallen  to  the  lot  of  a  human  being.  I  recollected 
with  astonishment  my  puerile  eagerness  to  be  brought  to  the 
test  and  have  my  innocence  examined.  I  execrated  it  as  the 
vilest  and  most  insufferable  pedantry.  I  exclaimed  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  my  heart, '  Of  what  value  is  a  fair  fame  ?  It  is  the  jewel  of 
men  formed  to  be  amused  with  baubles.  Without  it  I  might 
have  had  serenity  of  heart  and  cheerfulness  of  occupation,  peace, 
and  liberty ;  why  should  I  confide  my  happiness  to  other  men's 
arbitration  ?  But  if  a  fair  fame  were  of  the  most  inexpressible 
value,  is  this  the  method  which  common  sense  would  prescribe 
to  retrieve  it  ?  The  language  which  these  institutions  hold  out 
to  the  unfortunate  is,  "Come,  and  be  shut  out  from  the  light  of 
day,  be  the  associate  of  those  whom  society  has  marked  out  for 
her  abhorrence,  be  the  slave  of  jailors,  be  loaded  with  fetters ; 
thus  shall  you  be  cleared  of  every  unworthy  aspersion,  and 
restored  to  reputation  and  honour!"  This  is  the  consolation 
she  affords  to  those  whom  malignity  or  folly,  private  pique  or 
unfounded  positiveness,  have  without  the  smallest  foundation 
loaded  with  calumny.'  For  myself  I  felt  my  own  innocence, 
and  I  soon  found  upon  inquiry  that  three-fourths  of  those  who 
are  regularly  subjected  to  a  similar  treatment  are  persons  whom 
even  with  all  the  superciliousness  and  precipitation  of  our  courts 
of  justice  no  evidence  can  be  found  sufficient  to  convict.  How 
slender  then  must  be  that  man's  portion  of  information  and  dis- 


ADVENTURES  OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  765 

cernment  who  is  willing  to  commit  his  character  and  welfare  to 
such  guardianship  ! 

But  my  case  was  even  worse  than  this.  I  intimately  felt  that 
a  trial,  such  as  institution  is  able  to  make  it,  is  only  the  worthy 
sequel  of  such  a  beginning.  What  chance  had  I,  after  the  pur- 
gation I  was  now  suffering,  that  I  should  come  out  acquitted  at 
last  ?  What  probabihty  was  there  that  the  trial  I  had  endured 
in  the  house  of  Mr.  Falkland  was  not  just  as  fair  as  any  that 
might  be  expected  to  follow  ?  No,  I  already  anticipated  my  own 
condemnation. 

Thus  was  I  cut  off  for  ever  from  all  that  existence  has  to  bestow, 
from  all  the  high  hopes  I  had  so  often  conceived,  from  all  the 
future  excellence  my  soul  so  much  delighted  to  imagine,  to  spend 
a  few  weeks  in  a  miserable  prison,  and  then  to  perish  by  the 
hand  of  the  public  executioner.  No  language  can  do  justice  to 
the  indignant  and  soul-sickening  loathing  that  these  ideas  ex- 
cited. My  resentment  was  not  restricted  to  my  prosecutor, 
but  extended  itself  to  the  whole  machine  of  human  society.  I 
could  never  beheve  that  all  this  was  the  fair  result  of  institutions 
inseparable  from  the  general  good.  I  regarded  the  whole  human 
species  as  so  many  hangmen  and  torturers.  I  considered  them 
as  confederated  to  tear  me  to  pieces ;  and  this  wide  scene  of 
inexorable  persecution  inflicted  upon  me  inexpressible  agony. 
I  looked  on  this  side  and  on  that ;  I  was  innocent ;  I  had  a  right 
to  expect  assistance ;  but  every  heart  was  steeled  against  me ; 
every  hand  was  ready  to  lend  its  force  to  make  my  ruin  secure. 
No  man  that  has  not  felt,  in  his  own  most  momentous  concerns, 
justice,  eternal  truth,  unalterable  equity,  engaged  in  his  behalf, 
and  on  the  other  side  brute  force,  impenetrable  obstinacy,  and 
unfeehng  insolence  can  imagine  the  sensations  that  then  passed 
through  my  mind.  I  saw  treachery  triumphant  and  enthroned ; 
I  saw  the  sinews  of  innocence  crumbled  into  dust  by  the  gripe 
of  mighty  guilt. 

What  relief  had  I  from  these  sensations  ?  Was  it  relief  that 
I  spent  the  day  in  the  midst  of  profligacy  and  execrations  that  I 
saw  reflected  from  every  countenance  agonies  only  inferior  to 
my  own  ?  He  that  would  form  a  lively  idea  of  the  regions  of 
the  damned  needed  only  to  witness  for  six  hours  a  scene  to  which 


766  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

I  was  confined  for  many  months.  Not  for  one  hour  could  I 
withdraw  myself  from  this  complexity  of  horrors,  or  take  refuge 
in  the  calmness  of  meditation.  Air,  exercise,  series,  contrast, 
those  grand  enliveners  of  the  human  frame,  I  was  for  ever  de- 
barred by  the  inexorable  tyranny  under  which  I  was  fallen.  Nor 
did  I  find  the  solitude  of  my  nightly  dungeon  less  insupportable. 
Its  only  furniture  was  the  straw  that  served  me  for  my  repose. 
It  was  narrow,  damp,  and  unwholesome.  The  slumbers  of  a 
mind,  wearied  like  mine  with  the  most  detestable  uniformity, 
to  whom  neither  amusement  nor  occupation  ever  offered  them- 
selves to  beguile  the  painful  hours,  were  short,  disturbed,  and 
unrefreshing.  My  sleeping,  still  more  than  my  waking  thoughts, 
were  full  of  perplexity,  deformity,  and  disorder.  To  these 
slumbers  succeeded  the  hours  which  by  the  regulations  of  our 
prison  I  was  obliged,  though  awake,  to  spend  in  solitary  and 
cheerless  darkness.  Here  I  had  neither  books,  nor  pens,  nor 
anything  upon  which  to  engage  my  attention ;  all  was  sightless 
blank.  How  was  a  mind,  active  and  indefatigable  like  mine,  to 
endure  this  misery  ?  I  could  not  sink  into  lethargy ;  I  could  not 
forget  my  woes  ;  they  haunted  me  with  unmerited  and  demoniac 
malice.  Cruel,  inexorable  policy  of  human  affairs  that  con- 
demns a  man  to  torture  like  this :  that  sanctions  it,  and  knows 
not  what  is  done  under  its  sanction ;  that  is  too  supine  and  un- 
feeling to  inquire  into  these  petty  details ;  that  calls  this  the  or- 
deal of  innocence  and  the  protector  of  freedom  !  A  thousand 
times  I  could  have  dashed  my  brains  against  the  walls  of  my 
dungeon ;  a  thousand  times  I  longed  for  death,  and  wished  with 
inexpressible  ardour  for  an  end  to  what  I  suffered ;  a  thousand 
times  I  meditated  suicide,  and  ruminated  in  the  bitterness  of 
my  soul  upon  the  different  means  of  escaping  from  the  load  of 
existence.  What  had  I  to  do  with  life  ?  I  had  seen  enough  to 
make  me  regard  it  with  detestation.  Why  should  I  wait  the 
lingering  process  of  legal  despotism,  and  not  dare  so  much  as  to 
die,  but  when  and  how  its  instruments  decreed  ?  Still  some 
inexplicable  suggestion  withheld  my  hand.  I  clung  with  des- 
perate fondness  to  this  shadow  of  existence,  its  mysterious  at- 
tractions, and  its  hopeless  prospects. 


ADVENTURES  OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  767 

Numerous  were  the  precautions  exercised  by  the  gang  of 
thieves  with  whom  I  now  resided^  to  elude  the  vigilance  of  the 
satellites  of  justice.  It  was  one  of  their  rules  to  commit  no  dep- 
redations but  at  a  distance  from  their  place  of  residence ;  and 
Gines  had  transgressed  this  regulation  in  the  attack  to  which  I 
was  indebted  for  my  present  asylum. 

One  day,  while  I  continued  in  this  situation,  a  circumstance 
occurred  which  involuntarily  attracted  my  attention.  Two  of 
our  people  had  been  sent  to  a  town  at  some  distance  for  the  pur- 
pose of  procuring  us  the  things  of  which  we  were  in  want.  After 
having  delivered  these  to  our  landlady,  they  retired  to  one  corner 
of  the  room,  and,  one  of  them  puUing  a  printed  paper  from  his 
pocket,  they  mutually  occupied  themselves  in  examining  its  con- 
tents. I  was  sitting  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  fire,  being  con- 
siderably better  than  I  had  been,  though  still  in  a  weak  and  de- 
bilitated state.  Having  read  for  a  considerable  time  they  looked 
at  me,  and  then  at  the  paper,  and  then  at  me  again.  They  then 
went  out  of  the  room  together  as  if  to  consult  without  interrup- 
tion upon  something  which  that  paper  suggested  to  them.  Some 
time  after  they  returned,  and  my  protector,  who  had  been  ab- 
sent upon  the  former  occasion,  entered  the  room  at  the  same 
instant. 

'  Captain  ! '  said  one  of  them  with  an  air  of  pleasure,  '  look  here  ! 
we  have  found  a  prize  !  I  believe  it  is  as  good  as  a  bank-note  of 
a  hundred  guineas.' 

Mr.  Raymond  (that  was  his  name)  took  the  paper  and  read. 
He  paused  for  a  moment.  He  then  crushed  the  paper  in  his 
hand ;  and,  turning  to  the  person  from  whom  he  had  received 
it,  said  with  the  tone  of  a  man  confident  in  the  success  of  his 
reasons  —    • 

'  What  use  have  you  for  these  hundred  guineas  ?  Are  you  in 
want  ?  Are  you  in  distress  ?  Can  you  be  contented  to  purchase 
them  at  the  price  of  treachery  ?  of  violating  the  laws  of  hos- 
pitality ? ' 

'Faith,  captain,  I  do  not  very  well  know.  After  having  vio- 
lated other  laws,  I  do  not  see  why  we  should  be  frightened  at  an 
old  saw.     We  pretend  to  judge  for  ourselves,  and  ought  to  be 

1  After  his  escape  from  prison. 


768  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

above  shrinking  from  a  bugbear  of  a  proverb.  Besides,  this  is 
a  good  deed,  and  I  should  think  no  more  harm  of  being  the  ruin 
of  such  a  thief  than  of  getting  my  dinner.' 

'A  thief !     You  talk  of  thieves  ! ' 

'Not  so  fast,  captain.  God  defend  that  I  should  say  a  word 
against  thieving  as  a  general  occupation  !  But  one  man  steals 
in  one  way,  and  another  in  another.  For  my  part  I  go  upon  the 
highway,  and  take  from  any  stranger  I  meet  what  it  is  a  hundred 
to  one  he  can  very  well  spare.  I  see  nothing  to  be  found  fault 
with  in  that.  But  I  have  as  much  conscience  as  another  man. 
Because  I  laugh  at  assizes  and  great  wigs  and  the  gallows,  and 
because  I  will  not  be  frightened  from  an  innocent  action  when 
the  lawyers  say  me  nay,  does  it  follow  that  I  am  to  have  a  fellow 
feeling  for  pilferers,  and  rascally  servants,  and  people  that  have 
neither  justice  nor  principle  ?  No  :  I  have  too  much  respect  for 
the  trade  not  to  be  a  foe  to  interlopers,  and  people  that  so  much 
more  deserve  my  hatred,  because  the  world  calls  them  by  my 
name.' 

'  You  are  wrong,  Larkins  !  You  certainly  ought  not  to  em- 
ploy against  people  that  you  hate,  supposing  your  hatred  to  be 
reasonable,  the  instrumentality  of  that  law  which  in  your  prac- 
tice you  defy.  Be  consistent.  Either  be  the  friend  of  law  or  its 
adversary.  Depend  upon  it  that,  wherever  there  are  laws  at  all, 
there  will  be  laws  against  such  people  as  you  and  me.  Either, 
therefore,  we  all  of  us  deserve  the  vengeance  of  the  law,  or  law  is 
not  the  proper  instrument  for  correcting  the  misdeeds  of  man- 
kind. I  tell  you  this,  because  I  would  have  you  aware  that  an 
informer,  or  a  king's  evidence,  a  man  who  takes  advantage  of 
the  confidence  of  another  in  order  to  betray  him,  who  sells  the 
life  of  his  neighbour  for  money,  or  coward-like,  upon  any  pre- 
tence, calls  in  the  law  to  do  that  for  him  which  he  cannot,  or 
dares  not  do  for  himself,  is  the  vilest  of  rascals.  But  in  the 
present  case,  if  your  reasons  were  the  best  in  the  world,  they 
do  not  apply.' 

While  Mr.  Raymond  was  speaking  the  rest  of  the  gang  came 
into  the  room.     He  immediately  turned  to  them  and  said  — 

'My  friends,  here  is  a  piece  of  intelligence  that  Larkins  has 
just  brought  in  which,  with  his  leave,  I  will  lay  before  you.' 


ADVENTURES  OF  CALEB   WILLIAMS  769 

Then  unfolding  the  paper  he  had  received  he  continued  :  '  This 
is  a  description  of  a  felon  with  the  offer  of  a  hundred  guineas 

for  his  apprehension.     Larkins  picked  it  up  at .     By  the 

time  and  other  circumstances,  but  particularly  by  the  minute 
description  of  his  person,  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  the  object  of 
it  is  our  young  friend,  whose  life  I  was,  a  while  ago,  the  instru- 
ment of  saving.  He  is  charged  here  with  having  taken  advan- 
tage of  the  confidence  of  his  patron  and  benefactor  to  rob  him 
of  property  to  a  large  amount.  Upon  this  charge  he  was  com- 
mitted to  the  county  jail,  from  whence  he  made  his  escape  about 
a  fortnight  ago  without  venturing  to  stand  his  trial,  a  circum- 
stance which  is  stated  by  the  advertiser  as  tantamount  to  a 
confession  of  guilt. 

'My  friends,  I  was  acquainted  with  the  particulars  of  this 
story  some  time  before.  This  lad  let  me  into  his  history,  at  a 
time  that  he  could  not  possibly  foresee  that  he  should  stand  in 
need  of  that  precaution  as  an  antidote  against  danger.  He  is 
not  guilty  of  what  is  laid  to  his  charge.  Which  of  you  is  so  ig- 
norant as  to  suppose  that  his  escape  is  any  confirmation  of  his 
guilt  ?  Who  ever  thinks,  when  he  is  apprehended  for  trial,  of 
his  innocence  or  guilt  as  being  at  all  material  to  the  issue  ?  Who 
ever  was  fool  enough  to  volunteer  a  trial,  where  those  who  are 
to  decide  think  more  of  the  horror  of  the  thing  of  which  he  is 
accused  than  whether  he  were  the  person  that  did  it ;  and  where 
the  nature  of  our  motives  is  to  be  collected  from  a  set  of  ignorant 
witnesses,  that  no  wise  man  would  trust  for  a  fair  representation 
of  the  most  indifferent  action  of  his  life  ? 

'The  poor  lad's  story  is  a  long  one,  and  I  will  not  trouble  you 
with  it  now.  But  from  that  story  it  is  as  clear  as  the  day  that, 
because  he  wished  to  leave  the  service  of  his  master,  because  he 
had  been,  perhaps,  a  Uttle  too  inquisitive  in  his  master's  concerns, 
and  because,  as  I  suspect,  he  had  been  entrusted  with  some  im- 
portant secrets,  his  master  conceived  an  antipathy  against  him. 
This  antipathy  gradually  proceeded  to  such  a  length  as  to  in- 
duce the  master  to  forge  this  vile  accusation.  He  seems  willing 
to  hang  the  lad  out  of  the  way  rather  than  suffer  him  to  go  where 
he  pleases,  or  get  beyond  the  reach  of  his  power.  Williams  has 
told  me  the  story  with  such  ingenuousness  that  I  am  as  sure 


770  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

that  he  is  guiltless  of  what  they  lay  to  his  charge  as  that  I  am 
so  myself.  Nevertheless,  the  man's  servants  who  were  called 
in  to  hear  the  accusation,  and  his  relation,  who,  as  justice  of  the 
peace,  made  out  the  mittimus,  and  who  had  the  folly  to  think 
he  could  be  impartial,  gave  it  on  his  side  with  one  voice,  and  thus 
afforded  Wilhams  a  sample  of  what  he  had  to  expect  in  the 
sequel. 

'Larkins,  who,  when  he  received  this  paper,  had  no  previous 
knowledge  of  particulars,  was  for  taking  advantage  of  it  for  the 
purpose  of  earning  one  hundred  guineas.  Are  you  of  that  mind 
now  you  have  heard  them?  Will  you,  for  so  paltry  a  consid- 
eration, deliver  up  the  lamb  into  the  jaws  of  the  wolf  ?  Will 
you  abet  the  purposes  of  this  sanguinary  rascal  who,  not  content 
with  driving  his  late  dependent  from  house  and  home,  depriving 
him  of  character  and  all  the  ordinary  means  of  subsistence,  and 
leaving  him  almost  without  a  refuge,  still  thirsts  for  his  blood  ? 
If  no  other  person  have  the  courage  to  set  limits  to  the  tyranny 
of  courts  of  justice,  shall  not  we  ?  Shall  we,  who  earn  our  live- 
lihood by  generous  daring,  be  indebted  for  a  penny  to  the  vile 
artifices  of  the  informer?  Shall  we,  against  whom  the  whole 
species  is  in  arms,  refuse  our  protection  to  an  individual  more 
exposed  to,  but  still  less  deserving  of,  their  persecution  than 
ourselves  ? ' 

The  representation  of  the  captain  produced  an  instant  efifect 
upon  the  whole  company.  They  all  exclaimed,  'Betray  him! 
No,  not  for  worlds  !  He  is  safe.  We  will  protect  him  at  the 
hazard  of  our  Hves.  If  fidelity  and  honour  be  banished  from 
thieves,  where  shall  they  find  refuge  upon  the  face  of  the  earth  ? '  ^ 
Larkins,  in  particular,  thanked  the  captain  for  his  interference, 
and  swore  that  he  would  rather  part  with  his  right  hand  than 
injure  so  worthy  a  lad  or  assist  such  an  unheard-of  villainy. 
Saying  this,  he  took  me  by  the  hand  and  bade  me  fear  nothing. 
Under  their  roof  no  harm  should  ever  befall  me :  and  even  if  the 
understrappers  of  the  law  should  discover  my  retreat,  they 
would  to  a  man  die  in  my  defence  rather  than  a  hair  of  my  head 
should  be  hurt.     I  thanked  him  most  sincerely  for  his  good  will, 

'  This  seems  to  be  the  parody  of  a  celebrated  saying  of  John,  King  of  France,  who  was 
taken  prisoner  by  the  Black  Prince  at  the  battle  of  Poitiers.     [Author's  note.] 


ADVENTURES  OF  CALEB   WILLIAMS  771 

but  I  was  principally  struck  with  the  fervent  benevolence  of 
my  benefactor.  I  told  them  that  my  enemies  were  inexorable, 
and  would  never  be  appeased  but  with  my  blood ;  and  assured 
them,  with  the  most  solemn  and  earnest  veracity,  that  I  had  done 
nothing  to  deserve  thepersecution  which  was  exercised  against  me. 

The  spirit  and  energy  of  Mr.  Raymond  had  been  such  as  to 
leave  no  part  for  me  to  perform  in  repelling  this  unlooked-for 
danger.  Nevertheless,  it  left  a  very  serious  impression  upon 
my  mind.  I  had  always  placed  some  confidence  in  the  returning 
equity  of  Mr.  Falkland.  Though  he  persecuted  me  with  bitter- 
ness, I  could  not  help  believing  that  he  did  it  unwillingly,  and 
I  was  persuaded  it  would  not  be  for  ever.  A  man  whose  original 
principles  had  been  so  full  of  rectitude  and  honour  could  not  fail 
at  some  time  to  recollect  the  injustice  of  his  conduct  and  to  remit 
his  asperity.  This  idea  had  been  always  present  to  me,  and  had, 
in  no  small  degree,  conspired  to  instigate  my  exertions.  I  said, 
'I  will  convince  my  persecutor  that  I  am  of  more  value  than 
that  I  should  be  sacrificed  purely  by  way  of  precaution.'  These 
expectations  on  my  part  had  been  encouraged  by  Mr.  Falkland's 
behaviour  upon  the  question  of  my  imprisonment,  and  by  various 
particulars  which  had  occurred  since. 

But  this  new  incident  gave  the  subject  a  totally  different  ap- 
pearance. I  saw  him,  not  contented  with  blasting  my  reputa- 
tion, confining  me  for  a  period  in  jail,  and  reducing  me  to  the 
situation  of  a  houseless  vagabond,  still  continuing  his  pursuit 
under  these  forlorn  circumstances  with  unmitigable  cruelty. 
Indignation  and  resentment  seemed  now,  for  the  first  time,  to 
penetrate  my  mind.  I  knew  his  misery  so  well,  I  was  so  fully 
acquainted  with  its  cause,  and  so  strongly  impressed  with  the 
idea  of  its  being  unmerited,  that,  while  I  suffered  so  deeply,  I 
still  continued  to  pity  rather  than  hate  my  persecutor.  But  this 
incident  introduced  some  change  into  my  feelings.  I  said, 
'Surely  he  might  now  believe  that  he  had  sufficiently  disarmed 
me,  and  might  at  length  suffer  me  to  be  at  peace.  At  least,  ought 
he  not  to  be  contented  to  leave  me  to  my  fate,  the  perilous  and 
uncertain  condition  of  an  escaped  felon,  instead  of  thus  whetting 
the  animosity  and  vigilance  of  my  countrymen  against  me  ? 
Were  his  interference  on  my  behalf  in  opposition  to  the  stern 


772  WILLIAM    GODWIN 

severity  of  Mr.  Forester,  and  his  various  acts  of  kindness  since 
a  mere  part  that  he  played  in  order  to  lull  me  into  patience  ? 
Was  he  perpetually  haunted  with  the  fear  of  an  ample  retaliation, 
and  for  that  purpose  did  he  personate  remorse  at  the  very  moment 
that  he  was  secretly  keeping  every  engine  at  play  that  could 
secure  my  destruction  ? '  The  very  suspicion  of  such  a  fact  filled 
me  with  inexpressible  horror,  and  struck  a  sudden  chill  through 
every  fibre  of  my  frame. 

My  wound  was  by  this  time  completely  healed,  and  it  became 
absolutely  necessary  that  I  should  form  some  determination 
respecting  the  future.  My  habits  of  thinking  were  such  as  gave 
me  an  uncontrollable  repugnance  to  the  vocation  of  my  hosts. 
I  did  not  indeed  feel  that  aversion  and  abhorrence  to  the  men 
which  are  commonly  entertained.  I  saw  and  respected  their 
good  qualities  and  their  virtues.  I  was  by  no  means  inclined  to 
believe  them  worse  men,  or  more  inimical  in  their  dispositions 
to  the  welfare  of  their  species  than  the  generality  of  those  that 
look  down  upon  them  with  most  censure.  But  though  I  did  not 
cease  to  love  them  as  individuals,  my  eyes  were  perfectly  open 
to  their  mistakes.  If  I  should  otherwise  have  been  in  danger  of 
being  misled,  it  was  my  fortune  to  have  studied  felons  in  a  jail 
before  I  studied  them  in  their  state  of  comparative  prosperity ; 
and  this  was  an  infallible  antidote  to  the  poison.  I  saw  that  in 
this  profession  were  exerted  uncommon  energy,  ingenuity,  and 
fortitude,  and  I  could  not  help  recollecting  how  admirably  bene- 
ficial such  qualities  might  be  made  in  the  great  theatre  of  human 
affairs ;  while,  in  their  present  direction,  they  were  thrown  away 
upon  purposes  diametrically  hostile  to  the  first  interests  of  human 
society.  Nor  were  their  proceedings  less  injurious  to  their  own 
interest  than  incompatible  with  the  general  welfare.  The  man 
who  risks  or  sacrifices  his  life  for  the  public  cause  is  rewarded 
with  the  testimony  of  an  approving  conscience ;  but  persons  who 
wantonly  defy  the  necessary,  though  atrociously  exaggerated, 
precautions  of  government  in  the  matter  of  property,  at  the  same 
time  they  commit  an  alarming  hostility  against  the  whole,  are, 
as  to  their  own  concerns,  scarcely  less  absurd  and  self-neglectful 
than  the  man  who  should  set  himself  up  as  a  mark  for  a  file  of 
musquetcers  to  shoot  at. 


ADVENTURES  OF  CALEB   WILLIAMS  773 

Viewing  the  subject  in  this  Hght,  I  not  only  determined  that 
I  would  have  no  share  in  their  occupation  myself,  but  I  thought 
I  could  not  do  less,  in  return  for  the  benefits  I  had  received  from 
them,  than  endeavour  to  dissuade  them  from  an  employment  in 
which  they  must  themselves  be  the  greatest  sufferers.  My 
expostulation  met  with  various  reception.  All  the  persons  to 
whom  it  was  addressed  had  been  tolerably  successful  in  persuad- 
ing themselves  of  the  innocence  of  their  calUng,  and  what  re- 
mained of  doubt  in  their  mind  was  smothered,  and,  so  to  speak, 
laboriously  forgotten.  Some  of  them  laughed  at  my  arguments 
as  a  ridiculous  piece  of  quixotism.  Others,  and  particularly  our 
captain,  repelled  them  with  the  boldness  of  a  man  that  knows 
he  has  got  the  strongest  side.  But  this  sentiment  of  ease  and 
self-satisfaction  did  not  long  remain.  They  had  been  used  to 
arguments  derived  from  religion  and  the  sacredness  of  law.  They 
had  long  ago  shaken  these  from  them  as  so  many  prejudices. 
But  my  view  of  the  subject  appealed  to  principles  which  they 
could  not  contest,  and  had  by  no  means  the  air  of  that  customary 
reproof  which  is  for  ever  dinned  in  our  ears  without  finding  one 
responsive  chord  in  our  hearts.  Finding  themselves  urged  with 
objections  unexpected  and  cogent,  some  of  those  to  whom  I  had 
addressed  them  began  to  grow  peevish  and  impatient  of  the  im- 
portunate remonstrance.  But  this  was  by  no  means  the  case 
with  Mr.  Raymond.  He  was  possessed  of  a  candour  that  I  have 
seldom  seen  equalled.  He  was  surprised  to  hear  objections  so 
powerful  to  that  which,  as  a  matter  of  speculation,  he  believed 
he  had  examined  on  all  sides.  He  revolved  them  with  impar- 
tiahty  and  care.  He  admitted  them  slowly,  but  he  at  length 
fully  admitted  them.     He  had  now  but  one  rejoinder  in  reserve. 

'Alas,WilHams,'  said  he,  'it  would  have  been  fortunate  for  me 
if  these  views  had  been  presented  to  me  previously  to  my  em- 
bracing my  present  profession.  It  is  now  too  late.  Those 
very  laws  which,  by  a  perception  of  their  iniquity,  drove  me  to 
what  I  am,  now  preclude  my  return.  God,  we  are  told,  judges  of 
men  by  what  they  are  at  the  period  of  judgment,  and  whatever 
be  their  crimes,  receives  them  to  favour.  But  the  institutions  of 
countries  that  profess  to  worship  this  God  admit  no  such  dis- 
tinctions.   They  leave  no  room  for  amendment,  and  seem  to  have 


774 


WILLIAM   GODWIN 


brutal  delight  in  confounding  the  demerits  of  offenders.  It 
signifies  not  what  is  the  character  of  the  individual  at  the  hour 
of  trial.  How  changed,  how  spotless,  and  how  useful,  avails 
him  nothing.  If  they  discover,  at  the  distance  of  fourteen,^ 
or  forty  years,^  an  action  for  which  the  law  ordains  that  his  life 
shall  be  the  forfeit,  though  the  interval  should  have  been  spent 
with  the  purity  of  a  saint  and  the  devotedness  of  a  patriot,  they 
disdain  to  inquire  into  it.  What  then  can  I  do  ?  Am  I  not 
compelled  to  go  on  in  folly,  having  once  begun  ? ' 

I  was  extremely  affected  by  this  plea.  I  could  only  answer 
that  Mr.  Raymond  must  himself  be  the  best  judge  of  the  course 
it  became  him  to  hold ;  I  trusted  the  case  was  not  so  desperate 
as  he  imagined. 

[Unremitting  persecution  follows  Williams  wherever  he  goes,  depriving  him 
of  friends  and  livelihood.  Reduced  to  desperation,  he  resolves  to  turn  on  his 
enemy  and,  at  any  cost,  to  find  revenge  in  the  revelation  of  the  secret.] 

POSTSCRIPT 

All  is  over.  I  have  carried  into  execution  my  meditated  at- 
tempt. My  situation  is  totally  changed  ;  I  now  sit  down  to  give 
an  account  of  it.  For  several  weeks  after  the  completion  of  this 
dreadful  business  my  mind  was  in  too  tumultuous  a  state  to 
permit  me  to  write.  I  think  I  shall  now  be  able  to  arrange  my 
thoughts  sufficiently  for  that  purpose.  Great  God  !  how  won- 
drous, how  terrible,  are  the  events  that  have  intervened  since 
I  was  last  employed  in  a  similar  manner  !  It  is  no  wonder  my 
thoughts  were  solemn  and  my  mind  filled  with  horrible  fore- 
bodings ! 

Having  formed  my  resolution,  I  set  out  from  Harwich  for  the 
metropoHtan  town  of  the  country  in  which  Mr.  Falkland  resided. 
Gines,  I  well  knew,  was  in  my  rear.  That  was  of  no  consequence 
to  me.  He  might  wonder  at  the  direction  I  pursued,  but  he 
could  not  tell  with  what  purpose  I  pursued  it.  My  design  was  a 
secret,  carefully  locked  up  in  my  own  breast.  It  was  not  with- 
out a  sentiment  of  terror  that  I  entered  a  town  which  had  been 

1  Eufcene  Aram.     See  Annual  ReRister  for  i7Sg.     [Author's  note.] 

2  William  Andrew  Home.     Ditto,  ditto.     [Author's  notes.] 


ADVENTURES  OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  775 

the  scene  of  my  long  imprisonment.  I  proceeded  to  the  house 
of  the  chief  magistrate  the  instant  I  arrived,  that  I  might  give 
no  time  to  my  adversary  to  counterwork  my  proceeding. 

I  told  him  who  I  was,  and  that  I  was  come  from  a  distant  part 
of  the  kingdom  for  the  purpose  of  rendering  him  the  medium  of  a 
charge  of  murder  against  my  former  patron.  My  name  was 
already  familiar  to  him.  He  answered  that  he  could  not  take 
cognisance  of  my  deposition,  that  I  was  an  object  of  universal 
execration  in  that  part  of  the  world,  and  he  was  determined 
upon  no  account  to  be  the  vehicle  of  my  depravity. 

I  warned  him  to  consider  well  what  he  was  doing.  I  called 
upon  him  for  no  favour;  I  only  apphed  to  him  in  the  regular 
exercise  of  his  function.  Would  he  take  upon  him  to  say  that 
he  had  a  right  at  his  pleasure  to  suppress  a  charge  of  this  com- 
plicated nature  ?  I  had  to  accuse  Mr.  Falkland  of  repeated 
murders.  The  perpetrator  knew  that  I  was  in  possession  of  the 
truth  upon  the  subject,  and  knowing  that,  I  went  perpetually  in 
danger  of  my  life  from  his  malice  and  revenge.  I  was  deter- 
mined to  go  through  with  the  business  if  justice  were  to  be 
obtained  from  any  court  in  England.  Upon  what  pretence  did 
he  refuse  my  deposition  ?  I  was  in  every  respect  a  competent 
witness.  I  was  of  age  to  understand  the  nature  of  an  oath ;  I 
was  in  my  perfect  senses ;  I  was  untarnished  by  the  verdict  of 
any  jury  or  the  sentence  of  any  judge.  His  private  opinion  of 
my  character  could  not  alter  the  law  of  the  land.  I  demanded 
to  be  confronted  with  Mr.  Falkland,  and  I  was  well  assured  I 
should  substantiate  the  charge  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  whole 
world.  If  he  did  not  think  proper  to  apprehend  him  on  my  single 
testimony,  I  should  be  satisfied  if  he  only  sent  him  notice  of  the 
charge  and  summoned  him  to  appear. 

The  magistrate,  finding  me  thus  resolute,  thought  proper  a 
Httle  to  lower  his  tone.  He  no  longer  absolutely  refused  to 
comply  with  my  requisition,  but  condescended  to  expostulate 
with  me.  He  represented  to  me  Mr.  Falkland's  health,  which 
had  for  some  years  been  exceedingly  indifferent,  his  having  been 
once  already  brought  to  the  most  solemn  examination  on  this 
charge,  the  diabolical  malice  in  which  alone  my  proceeding  must 
have  originated,  and  the  tenfold  ruin  it  would  bring  down  upon 


776  WILLIAM  GODWIN 

my  head.  To  all  these  representations  my  answer  was  short. 
'I  was  determined  to  go  on,  and  would  abide  the  consequences.' 
A  summons  was  at  length  granted,  and  notice  sent  to  Mr.  Falk- 
land of  the  charge  preferred  against  him. 

Three  days  elapsed  before  any  further  step  could  be  taken  in 
this  business.  This  interval  in  no  degree  contributed  to  tran- 
quillise  my  mind.  The  thought  of  preferring  a  capital  accusation 
against,  and  hastening  the  death  of,  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Falkland 
was  by  no  means  an  opiate  to  reflection.  At  one  time  I  com- 
mended the  action,  either  as  just  revenge  (for  the  benevolence  of 
my  nature  was  in  a  great  degree  turned  to  gall)  or  as  necessary 
self-defence,  or  as  that  which,  in  an  impartial  and  philanthropical 
estimate,  included  the  smallest  evil.  But  in  spite  of  these 
variations  of  sentiment  I  uniformly  determined  to  persist !  I 
felt  as  if  impelled  by  a  tide  of  unconquerable  impulse.  The 
consequences  were  such  as  might  well  appal  the  stoutest  heart. 
Either  the  ignominious  execution  of  a  man  whom  I  had  once  so 
deeply  venerated,  and  whom  now  I  sometimes  suspected  not  to 
be  without  his  claims  to  veneration,  or  a  confirmation,  perhaps 
an  increase,  of  the  calamities  I  had  so  long  endured.  Yet  these 
I  preferred  to  a  state  of  uncertainty.  I  desired  to  know  the  worst, 
to  put  an  end  to  the  hope,  however  faint,  which  had  been  so  long 
my  torment ;  and,  above  all,  to  exhaust  and  finish  the  catalogue 
of  expedients  that  were  at  my  disposition.  My  mind  was  worked 
up  to  a  state  little  short  of  frenzy.  My  body  was  in  a  burning 
fever  with  the  agitation  of  my  thoughts.  When  I  laid  my  hand 
upon  my  bosom,  or  my  head,  it  seemed  to  scorch  them  with  the 
fervency  of  its  heat.  I  could  not  sit  still  for  a  moment.  I  panted 
with  incessant  desire  that  the  dreadful  crisis  I  had  so  eagerly 
invoked  were  come  and  were  over. 

After  an  interval  of  three  days  I  met  Mr.  Falkland  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  magistrate  to  whom  I  had  apphed  upon  the  subject. 
I  had  only  two  hours'  notice  to  prepare  myself;  Mr.  Falkland 
seeming  as  eager  as  I  to  have  the  question  brought  to  a  crisis 
and  laid  at  rest  for  ever.  I  had  an  opportunity  before  the  exam- 
ination to  learn  that  Mr.  Forester  was  drawn  by  some  business 
on  an  excursion  on  the  continent ;  and  that  Colhns,  whose  health 
when  I  saw  him  was  in  a  very  precarious  state,  was  at  this  time 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB   WILLIAMS  777 

confined  with  an  alarming  illness.  His  constitution  had  been 
wholly  broken  by  his  West  Indian  expedition.  The  audience  I 
met  at  the  house  of  the  magistrate  consisted  of  several  gentlemen 
and  others  selected  for  the  purpose,  the  plan  being  in  some 
respects,  as  in  the  former  instance,  to  find  a  medium  between  the 
suspicious  air  of  a  private  examination  and  the  indelicacy,  as  it 
was  styled,  of  an  examination  exposed  to  the  remark  of  every 
casual  spectator. 

I  can  conceive  of  no  shock  greater  than  that  I  received  from  the 
sight  of  Mr.  Falkland.  His  appearance  on  the  last  occasion  on 
which  we  met  had  been  haggard,  ghostlike,  and  wild,  energy  in  his 
gestures  and  frenzy  in  his  aspect.  It  was  now  the  appearance  of 
a  corpse.  He  was  brought  in  in  a  chair,  unable  to  stand,  fatigued 
and  almost  destroyed  by  the  journey  he  had  just  taken.  His 
visage  was  colourless,  his  limbs  destitute  of  motion,  almost  of 
life.  His  head  reclined  upon  his  bosom,  except  that  now  and 
then  he  hfted  it  up  and  opened  his  eyes  with  a  languid  glance, 
immediately  after  which  he  sunk  back  into  his  former  apparent 
insensibihty.  He  seemed  not  to  have  three  hours  to  live.  He 
had  kept  his  chamber  for  several  weeks,  but  the  summons  of  the 
magistrate  had  been  delivered  to  him  at  his  bedside :  his  orders 
respecting  letters  and  written  papers  being  so  peremptory  that 
no  one  dared  to  disobey  them.  Upon  reading  the  paper  he  was 
seized  with  a  very  dangerous  fit ;  but  as  soon  as  he  recovered,  he 
insisted  on  being  conveyed  with  all  practicable  expedition  to  the 
place  of  appointment.  Falkland  in  the  most  helpless  state  was 
still  Falkland,  firm  in  command,  and  capable  to  extort  obedience 
from  every  one  that  approached  him. 

What  a  sight  was  this  to  me  !  Till  the  moment  that  Falkland 
was  presented  to  my  view  my  breast  was  steeled  to  pity.  I 
thought  that  I  had  coolly  entered  into  the  reason  of  the  case 
(passion,  in  a  state  of  solemn  and  omnipotent  vehemence,  always 
appears  to  be  coolness  to  him  in  whom  it  domineers) ,  and  that  I 
had  determined  impartially  and  justly.  I  believed  that  if  Mr, 
Falkland  were  permitted  to  persist  in  his  schemes  we  must  both 
of  us  be  completely  wretched.  I  believed  that  it  was  in  my 
power,  by  the  resolution  I  had  formed,  to  throw  my  share  of  this 
wretchedness  from  me,  and  that  his  could  scarcely  be  increased. 


778  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

It  appeared,  therefore,  to  my  mind  to  be  a  mere  piece  of  equity 
and  justice,  such  as  an  impartial  spectator  would  desire,  that  one 
person  should  be  miserable  in  preference  to  two  ;  that  one  person 
rather  than  two  should  be  incapacitated  from  acting  his  part  and 
contributing  his  share  to  the  general  welfare.  I  thought  that 
in  this  business  I  had  risen  superior  to  personal  considerations 
and  judged  with  a  total  neglect  of  the  suggestions  of  self-regard. 
It  is  true  Mr.  Falkland  was  mortal ;  but  notwithstanding  his 
apparent  decay  he  might  live  long.  Ought  I  to  submit,  to  waste 
the  best  years  of  my  life  in  my  present  wretched  situation  ? 
He  had  declared  that  his  reputation  should  be  forever  inviolate ; 
this  was  his  ruUng  passion,  the  thought  that  worked  his  soul  to 
madness.  He  would  probably,  therefore,  leave  a  legacy  of 
persecution  to  be  received  by  me  from  the  hands  of  Gines  or 
some  other  villain  equally  atrocious  when  he  should  himself  be 
no  more.  Now  or  never  was  the  time  for  me  to  redeem  my 
future  nfe  from  endless  woe. 

But  all  these  fine-spun  reasonings  vanished  before  the  object 
that  was  now  presented  to  me.  'Shall  I  trample  upon  a  man 
thus  dreadfully  reduced  ?  Shall  I  point  my  animosity  against 
one,  whom  the  system  of  nature  has  brought  down  to  the  grave  ? 
Shall  I  poison,  with  sounds  the  most  intolerable  to  his  ear,  the 
last  moments  of  a  man  like  Falkland  ?  It  is  impossible.  There 
must  have  been  some  dreadful  mistake  in  the  train  of  argument 
that  persuaded  me  to  be  the  author  of  this  hateful  scene.  There 
must  have  been  a  better  and  more  magnanimous  remedy  to  the 
evils  under  which  I  groaned.' 

It  was  too  late.  The  mistake  I  had  committed  was  now  gone, 
past  all  power  of  recall.  Here  was  Falkland  solemnly  brought 
before  a  magistrate  to  answer  to  a  charge  of  murder.  Here  I 
stood,  having  already  declared  myself  the  author  of  the  charge, 
gravely  and  sacredly  pledged  to  support  it.  This  was  my  situa- 
tion, and  thus  situated  I  was  called  upon  immediately  to  act. 
My  whole  frame  shook.  I  would  eagerly  have  consented  that 
that  moment  should  have  been  the  last  of  my  existence.  I, 
however,  beheved  that  the  conduct  now  most  indispensably 
incumbent  on  me  was  to  lay  the  emotions  of  my  soul  naked  be- 
fore my  hearers.     I  looked  first  at  Mr.  Falkland,  and  then  at  the 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB    WILLIAMS  779 

magistrate  and  attendants,  and  then  at  Mr.  Falkland  again. 
My  voice  was  suffocated  with  agony.     I  began  — 

'Why  cannot  I  recall  the  four  last  days  of  my  life  ?  How  was 
it  possible  for  me  to  be  so  eager,  so  obstinate,  in  a  purpose  so 
diabohcal  ?  Oh,  that  I  had  Hstened  to  the  expostulations  of  the 
magistrate  that  hears  me,  or  submitted  to  the  well-meant  despot- 
ism of  his  authority  !  Hitherto  I  have  only  been  miserable ; 
henceforth  I  shall  account  myself  base  !  Hitherto,  though  hardly 
treated  by  mankind,  I  stood  acquitted  at  the  bar  of  my  own  con- 
science.    I  had  not  filled  up  the  measure  of  my  wretchedness  ! 

'Would  to  God  it  were  possible  for  me  to  retire  from  this 
scene-  without  uttering  another  word  !  I  would  brave  the  con- 
sequences —  I  would  submit  to  an  imputation  of  cowardice, 
falsehood,  and  profligacy  rather  than  add  to  the  weight  of  mis- 
fortune with  which  Mr.  Falkland  is  overwhelmed.  But  the 
situation  and  the  demands  of  Mr.  Falkland  himself  forbid  me. 
He,  in  compassion  for  whose  fallen  state  I  would  willingly  forget 
every  interest  of  my  own,  would  compel  me  to  accuse  that  he 
might  enter  upon  his  justification.  I  will  confess  every  senti- 
ment of  my  heart. 

'No  penitence,  no  anguish,  can  expiate  the  folly  and  the 
cruelty  of  this  last  act  I  have  perpetrated.  But  Mr.  Falkland 
well  knows  —  I  affirm  it  in  his  presence  —  how  unwilHngly  I 
have  proceeded  to  this  extremity.  I  have  reverenced  him ;  he 
was  worthy  of  reverence :  I  loved  him ;  he  was  endowed  with 
qualities  that  partook  of  divine. 

'  From  the  first  moment  I  saw  him  I  conceived  the  most  ardent 
admiration.  He  condescended  to  encourage  me  !  I  attached 
myself  to  him  with  the  fulness  of  affection.  He  was  unhappy ; 
I  exerted  myself  with  youthful  curiosity  to  discover  the  secret 
of  his  woe.     This  was  the  beginning  of  misfortune. 

'What  shall  I  say?  He  was  indeed  the  murderer  of  Tyrrel; 
he  suffered  the  Hawkinses  to  be  executed,  knowing  that  they 
were  innocent,  and  that  he  alone  was  guilty.  After  successive 
surmises,  after  various  indiscretions  on  my  part  and  indications 
on  his,  he  at  length  confided  to  me  at  full  the  fatal  tale  ! 

'  Mr.  Falkland  !  I  most  solemnly  conjure  you  to  recollect  your- 
self !     Did  I  ever  prove  myself  unworthy  of  your  confidence  ? 


78o  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

The  secret  was  a  most  painful  burthen  to  me ;  it  was  the  extremest 
folly  that  led  me  unthinkingly  to  gain  possession  of  it ;  but  I 
would  have  died  a  thousand  deaths  rather  than  betray  it.  It  was 
the  jealousy  of  your  own  thoughts,  and  the  weight  that  hung 
upon  your  mind,  that  led  you  to  watch  my  motions,  and  conceive 
alarm  from  every  particle  of  my  conduct. 

'You  began  in  confidence;  why  did  you  not  continue  in  con- 
fidence? The  evil  that  resulted  from  my  original  imprudence 
would  then  have  been  comparatively  little.  You  threatened 
me ;  did  I  then  betray  you  ?  A  word  from  my  hps  at  that  time 
would  have  freed  me  from  your  threats  for  ever.  I  bore  them 
for  a  considerable  period,  and  at  last  quitted  your  service,  and 
threw  myself  a  fugitive  upon  the  world,  in  silence.  Why  did 
you  not  suffer  me  to  depart  ?  You  brought  me  back  by  strata- 
gem and  violence,  and  wantonly  accused  me  of  an  enormous 
felony ;  did  I  then  mention  a  syllable  of  the  murder,  the  secret 
of  which  was  in  my  possession  ? 

'  Where  is  the  man  that  has  suffered  more  from  the  injustice  of 
society  than  I  have  done  ?  I  was  accused  of  a  villainy  that  my 
heart  abhorred.  I  was  sent  to  jail.  I  will  not  enumerate  the 
horrors  of  my  prison,  the  lightest  of  which  would  make  the  heart 
of  humanity  shudder.  I  looked  forward  to  the  gallows.  Young, 
ambitious,  fond  of  Hfe,  innocent  as  the  child  unborn,  I  looked 
forward  to  the  gallows.  I  believed  that  one  word  of  resolute 
accusation  against  my  patron  would  dehver  me  ;  yet  I  was  silent, 
I  armed  myself  with  patience,  uncertain  whether  it  were  better 
to  accuse  or  to  die.  Did  this  show  me  a  man  unworthy  to  be 
trusted  ? 

*I  determined  to  break  out  of  prison.  With  infinite  difficulty 
and  repeated  miscarriages  I  at  length  effected  my  purpose. 
Instantly  a  proclamation,  with  a  hundred  guineas  reward,  was 
issued  for  apprehending  me.  I  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  among 
the  refuse  of  mankind,  in  the  midst  of  a  gang  of  thieves.  I  en- 
countered the  most  imminent  peril  of  my  hfe  when  I  entered 
this  retreat  and  when  I  quitted  it.  Immediately  after,  I  trav- 
elled almost  the  whole  length  of  the  kingdom  in  poverty  and 
distress,  in  hourly  danger  of  being  retaken  and  manacled  like  a 
felon.     I  would  have  fled  my  country ;  I  was  prevented.     I  had 


ADVENTURES  OF  CALEB   WILLIAMS  781 

recourse  to  various  disguises ;  I  was  innocent,  and  yet  was  com- 
pelled to  as  many  arts  and  subterfuges  as  could  have  been  entailed 
on  the  worst  of  villains.  In  London  I  was  as  much  harassed  and 
as  repeatedly  alarmed  as  I  had  been  in  my  flight  through  the 
country.  Did  all  these  persecutions  persuade  me  to  put  an  end  to 
my  silence  ?  No  ;  I  suffered  them  with  patience  and  submission ; 
I  did  not  make  one  attempt  to  retort  them  upon  their  author. 

'  I  fell  at  last  into  the  hands  of  the  miscreants  that  are  nourished 
with  human  blood.  In  this  terrible  situation  I,  for  the  first  time, 
attempted,  by  turning  informer,  to  throw  the  weight  from  my- 
self. Happily  for  me,  the  London  magistrate  listened  to  my  tale 
with  insolent  contempt. 

'I  soon  and  long  repented  of  my  rashness,  and  rejoiced  in  my 
miscarriage.  I  acknowledged  that,  in  various  ways,  Mr.  Falk- 
land showed  humanity  towards  me  during  this  period.  He 
would  have  prevented  my  going  to  prison  at  first ;  he  contributed 
to  my  subsistence  during  my  detention ;  he  had  no  share  in  the  ■ 
pursuit  that  was  set  on  foot  against  me ;  he  at  length  procured 
my  discharge  when  brought  forward  for  trial.  But  a  great  part 
of  his  forbearance  was  unknown  to  me ;  I  supposed  him  to  be  my 
unrelenting  pursuer.  I  could  not  forget  that,  whoever  heaped 
calamities  on  me  in  the  sequel,  they  all  originated  in  his  forged 
accusation. 

'The  prosecution  against  me  for  felony  was  now  at  an  end. 
Why  were  not  my  sufferings  permitted  to  terminate  then,  and  I 
allowed  to  hide  my  weary  head  in  obscure  yet  tranquil  retreat  ? 
Had  I  not  sufficiently  proved  my  constancy  and  fidehty  ?  Would 
not  a  compromise  in  this  situation  have  been  most  wise  and  most 
secure?  But  the  restless  and  jealous  anxiety  of  Mr.  Falkland 
would  not  permit  him  to  repose  the  least  atom  of  confidence. 
The  only  compromise  that  he  proposed  was  that,  with  my  own 
hand,  I  should  sign  myself  a  villain.  I  refused  this  proposal,  and 
have  ever  since  been  driven  from  place  to  place,  deprived  of 
peace,  of  honest  fame,  even  of  bread.  For  a  long  time  I  persisted 
in  the  resolution  that  no  emergency  should  convert  me  into  the 
assailant.  In  an  evil  hour  I  at  last  listened  to  my  resentment  and 
impatience,  and  the  hateful  mistake  into  which  I  fell  has  produced 
the  present  scene. 


782  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

'  I  now  see  that  mistake  in  all  its  enormity.  I  am  sure  that  if  I 
had  opened  my  heart  to  Mr.  Falkland,  if  I  had  told  him  privately 
the  tale  that  I  have  now  been  telling,  he  could  not  have  resisted 
my  reasonable  demand.  After  all  his  precautions  he  must 
ultimately  have  depended  upon  my  forbearance.  Could  he  be 
sure  that  if  I  were  at  last  worked  up  to  disclose  everything  I 
knew,  and  to  enforce  it  with  all  the  energy  I  could  exert,  I  should 
obtain  no  credit  ?  If  he  must  in  every  case  be  at  my  mercy,  in 
which  mode  ought  he  to  have  sought  his  safety,  in  conciliation, 
or  in  inexorable  cruelty  ? 

'  Mr.  Falkland  is  of  a  noble  nature.  Yes ;  in  spite  of  the  catas- 
trophe of  Tyrrel,  of  the  miserable  end  of  the  Hawkinses,  and 
of  all  that  I  have  myself  suffered,  I  affirm  that  he  has  qualities  of 
the  most  admirable  kind.  It  is  therefore  impossible  that  he 
could  have  resisted  a  frank  and  fervent  expostulation,  the  frank- 
ness and  the  fervour  in  which  the  whole  soul  was  poured  out. 
I  despaired  while  it  was  yet  time  to  have  made  the  just  experi- 
ment; but  my  despair  was  criminal,  was  treason  against  the 
sovereignty  of  truth. 

'  I  have  told  a  plain  and  unadulterated  tale.  I  came  hither  to 
curse,  but  I  remain  to  bless.  I  came  to  accuse,  but  am  com- 
pelled to  applaud.  I  proclaim  to  all  the  world  that  Mr.  Falkland 
is  a  man  worthy  of  affection  and  kindness,  and  that  I  am  my- 
self the  basest  and  most  odious  of  mankind  !  Never  will  I 
forgive  myself  the  iniquity  of  this  day.  The  memory  will  always 
haunt  me,  and  embitter  every  hour  of  my  existence.  In  thus 
acting  I  have  been  a  murderer,  a  cool,  deliberate,  unfeeUng  mur- 
derer. I  have  said  what  my  accursed  precipitation  has  obliged 
me  to  say.  Do  with  me  as  you  please.  I  ask  no  favour.  Death 
would  be  a  kindness  compared  to  what  I  feel  ! ' 

Such  were  the  accents  dictated  by  my  remorse.  I  poured 
them  out  with  uncontrollable  impetuosity,  for  my  heart  was 
pierced  and  I  was  compelled  to  give  vent  to  its  anguish.  Every 
one  that  heard  me  was  petrified  with  astonishment.  Every  one 
that  heard  me  was  melted  into  tears.  They  could  not  resist  the 
ardour  with  which  I  praised  the  great  qualities  of  Falkland ; 
they  manifested  their  sympathy  in  the  tokens  of  my  penitence. 

How  shall  I  describe  the  feelings  of  this  unfortunate  man? 


ADVENTURES   OF   CALEB    WILLIAMS  783 

Before  I  began  he  seemed  sunk  and  debilitated,  incapable  of  any 
strenuous  impression.  When  I  mentioned  the  murder  I  could 
perceive  in  him  an  involuntary  shuddering,  though  it  was 
counteracted  partly  by  the  feebleness  of  his  frame  and  partly 
by  the  energy  of  his  mind.  This  was  an  allegation  he  expected, 
and  he  had  endeavoured  to  prepare  himself  for  it.  But  there 
was  much  of  what  I  said  of  which  he  had  no  previous  conception. 
When  I  expressed  the  anguish  of  my  mind,  he  seemed  at  first 
startled  and  alarmed  lest  this  should  be  a  new  expedient  to  gain 
credit  to  my  tale.  His  indignation  against  me  was  great  for 
having  retained  all  my  resentment  towards  him,  thus,  as  it 
might  be,  in  the  last  hour  of  his  existence.  It  was  increased  when 
he  discovered  me,  as  he  supposed,  using  a  pretence  of  liberality 
and  sentiment  to  give  new  edge  to  my  hostility.  But  as  I  went 
on  he  could  no  longer  resist.  He  saw  my  sincerity ;  he  was 
penetrated  with  my  grief  and  compunction.  He  rose  from  his 
seat,  supported  by  the  attendants,  and  —  to  my  infinite  aston- 
ishment —  threw  himself  into  my  arms. 

'Williams,'  said  he,  'you  have  conquered  !  I  see  too  late  the 
greatness  and  elevation  of  your  mind.  I  confess  that  it  is  to  my 
fault  and  not  yours,  that  it  is  to  the  excess  of  jealousy  that  was 
ever  burning  in  my  bosom  that  I  owe  my  ruin.  I  could  have 
resisted  any  plan  of  malicious  accusation  you  might  have  brought 
against  me.  But  I  see  that  the  artless  and  manly  story  you  have 
told  has  carried  conviction  to  every  hearer.  All  my  prospects 
are  concluded.  All  that  I  most  ardently  desired  is  for  ever 
frustrated.  I  have  spent  a  life  of  the  basest  cruelty  to  cover  one 
act  of  momentary  vice,  and  to  protect  myself  against  the  prej- 
udices of  my  species,  I  stand  now  completely  detected.  My 
name  will  be  consecrated  to  infamy,  while  your  heroism,  your 
patience,  and  your  virtues  will  be  for  ever  admired.  You  have 
inflicted  on  me  the  most  fatal  of  all  mischiefs,  but  I  bless  the  hand 
that  wounds  me.  '"^And  now,  — (turning  to  the  magistrate) —  and 
now,  do  with  me  as  you  please.  I  am  prepared  to  suffer  all  the 
vengeance  of  the  law.  You  cannot  inflict  on  me  more  than  I 
deserve.  You  cannot  hate  me  more  than  I  hate  myself.  I  am 
the  most  execrable  of  all  villains.  I  have  for  many  years  (I 
know  not  how  long)  dragged  on  a  miserable  existence  in  insup- 


784  '  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

portable  pain.  I  am  at  last,  in  recompense  for  all  my  labours 
and  crimes,  dismissed  from  it  with  the  disappointment  of  my 
only  remaining  hope  —  the  destruction  of  that  for  the  sake  of 
which  alone  I  consented  to  exist.  It  was  worthy  of  such  a  life 
that  it  should  continue  just  long  enough  to  witness  this  final 
overthrow.  If,  however,  you  wish  to  punish  me,  you  must  be 
speedy  in  your  justice,  for  as  reputation  was  the  blood  that 
warmed  my  heart,  so  I  feel  that  death  and  infamy  must  seize 
me  together.' 

I  record  the  praises  bestowed  on  me  by  Falkland,  not  because  I 
deserve  them  but  because  they  serve  to  aggravate  the  baseness  of 
my  cruelty.  He  survived  but  three  days  this  dreadful  scene. 
I  have  been  his  murderer.  It  was  fit  that  he  should  praise  my 
patience,  who  has  fallen  a  victim,  life  and  fame,  to  my  precipita- 
tion !  It  would  have  been  merciful  in  comparison  if  I  had  planted 
a  dagger  in  his  heart.  He  would  have  thanked  me  for  my  kind- 
ness. But  atrocious,  execrable  wretch  that  I  have  been  !  I 
wantonly  inflicted  on  him  an  anguish  a  thousand  times  worse 
than  death.  Meanwhile  I  endure  the  penalty  of  my  crime.  His 
figure  is  ever  in  imagination  before  me.  Waking  or  sleeping  I 
still  behold  him.  He  seems  mildly  to  expostulate  with  me  for  my 
unfeeling  behaviour.  I  live  the  devoted  victim  of  conscious 
reproach.  Alas  !  I  am  the  same  Caleb  Williams  that,  so  short  a 
time  ago,  boasted  that,  however  great  were  the  calamities  I 
endured,  I  was  still  innocent. 

Such  has  been  the  result  of  a  project  I  formed  for  delivering 
myself  from  the  evils  that  had  so  long  attended  me.  I  thought 
that  if  Falkland  were  dead,  I  should  return  once  again  to  all  that 
makes  life  worth  possessing.  I  though  that,  if  the  guilt  of  Falk- 
land were  established,  fortune  and  the  world  would  smile  upon 
my  efforts.  Both  these  events  are  accomplished,  and  it  is  now 
only  that  I  am  truly  miserable. 

Why  should  my  reflections  perpetually  centre  upon  myself? 
self,  an  overwhelming  regard  to  which  has  been  the  source  of  my 
errors  !  Falkland,  I  will  think  only  of  thee,  and  from  that  thought 
will  draw  ever-fresh  nourishment  for  my  sorrows  !  One  generous, 
one  disinterested  tear  I  will  consecrate  to  thy  ashes  !  A  nobler 
spirit  Hved  not  among  the  sons  of  men.     Thy  intellectual  powers 


ADVENTURES  OF   CALEP    WILLIAMS  785 

were  truly  sublime,  and  thy  bosom  burned  with  a  godlike  ambi- 
tion. But  of  what  use  are  talents  and  sentiments  in  the  corrupt 
wilderness  of  human  society  ?  It  is  a  rank  and  rotten  soil  from 
which  every  finer  shrub  draws  poison  as  it  grows.  All  that,  in  a 
happier  field  and  a  purer  air,  would  expand  into  virtue  and  ger- 
minate into  usefulness  is  thus  converted  into  henbane  and  deadly 
nightshade. 

Falkland  !  thou  enteredst  upon  thy  career  with  the  purest  and 
most  laudable  intentions.  But  thou  imbibedst  the  poison  of 
chivalry  with  thy  earliest  youth ;  and  the  base  and  low-minded 
envy  that  met  thee  on  thy  return  to  thy  native  seats  operated 
with  this  poison  to  hurry  thee  into  madness.  Soon,  too  soon,  by 
this  fatal  coincidence,  were  the  blooming  hopes  of  thy  youth 
blasted  for  ever  !  From  that  moment  thou  only  continuedst  to 
live  to  the  phantom  of  departed  honour.  From  that  moment 
thy  benevolence  was,  in  a  great  part,  turned  into  rankling  jealousy 
and  inexorable  precaution.  Year  after  year  didst  thou  spend  in 
this  miserable  project  of  imposture  ;  and  only  at  last  continuedst 
to  live  long  enough  to  see,  by  my  misjudging  and  abhorred  inter- 
vention, thy  closing  hope  disappointed,  and  thy  death  accom- 
panied with  the  foulest  disgrace  ! 

I  began  these  memoirs  with  the  idea  of  vindicating  my  char- 
acter. I  have  now  no  character  that  I  wish  to  vindicate ;  but 
I  will  finish  them  that  thy  story  may  be  fully  understood ;  and 
that,  if  those  errors  of  thy  life  be  known  which  thou  so  ardently 
desiredst  to  conceal,  the  world  may  at  least  not  hear  and  repeat  a 
half-told  and  mangled  tale. 


INDEX 


Alfonso  the  Good,  former  possessor 
of  Otranto,  486,  487,  510,  526, 
531,  546,  557,  560,  561,  570, 
573-576 

AUworthy,  Miss  Bridget,  AU- 
worthj^'s  sister,  later  Mrs.  Blifll, 
introduced,  306-307 ;  receives 
Tom  Jones,  312-315,  316  (note)  ; 
admired  by  Thwackum  and 
Square,  329-332;  discussed  by 
author,  332-333,  337 

AUworthy,  Sguire,  Tom  Jones's 
benefactor,  introduced,  305- 
306;  receives  Tom,  308-313; 
315,  316,  etc.;  tells  Blifil  of 
Western's  proposal,  371-372 ; 
hears  of  Tom's  conduct,  388- 
390;    banishes  him,  393-395 

Amphialus,  slayer  of  Argalus  and 
Parthenia,  112-113 

"Anatomy  of  Wit."    See  "Euphues" 

Annette,  Mme.  Montoni's  maid, 
584 ;  tells  Emily  about  veiled 
portrait  and  other  mysteries  of 
Udolpho,  585-595 ;  accompanies 
Emily  to  Chateau-le-Blanc,  605, 
614,  etc. 

Anville,  Evelina's  assumed  sur- 
name, 452,  454,  etc.  See  Eve- 
lina 

d' Arblay,  Mme.  See  Burney ,  Fanny 

"Arcadia"  ("Countess  of  Pem- 
broke's Arcadia"),  introd.,  VII, 
VIII ;    selections  from,  88-120 

Argalus,  Arcadian  knight,  history 
of,  101-114 

Arthur,  King,  1 ;  chosen  king,  2-6 ; 
gets  Excalibur,  6-7  ;  weds  Guen- 
ever,  8-9 ;  grieves  over  knights' 
departure  on  Grail  quest,  11 ; 
attends  tournament  at  Win- 
chester, 30-35,  45-47 ;  receives 
Elaine's  body,  51-52  ;  wars  with 
Mordred,  53-57  ;  commands  Ex- 
calibur to  be  east  into  lake,  56 ; 
is  borne  away  by  queens  in  barge, 
57  ;  his  tomb,  59 


Barlow,  parish  clergyman,  teaches 
Harry  Sandford,  681  ;  dines  at 
Merton's  and  agrees  to  train 
Tommy,  687-691,    703  (note) 

Basilius,  King  of  Arcadia,  his 
history,  98-101,   113,   118 

Beam,  Mile.,  Countess  de  Ville- 
fort's  companion,  598  (and  note), 
602 

Bedivere,  Arthurian  knight,  sup- 
ports Arthur  against  Mordred, 
54-58 ;  casts  Excalibur  into 
lake,  56-57 ;  enters  hermitage, 
58 

Behn,  Mrs.  Aphra,  introd.,  IX ; 
160-171 

Belford,  John,  Lovelace's  friend 
and  recipient  of  most  of  his 
letters,  248,  261,  etc.;  writes 
Lovelace  account  of  Clarissa's 
imprisonment,  279-283 ;  of  her 
illness  and  death,  284-286,  288- 
294 ;  gets  word  of  Lovelace's 
death,  299-302 

Bernard  of  Astolat,  Elaine's  father, 
lodges  Launcelot,  30 ;  _  lodges 
Gawain,  38-40 ;  carries  out 
Elaine's  behest,  50 

Bettv,  maid  in  Harlowe  family, 
252,  257,  259,  260 

Bianca,  Matilda's  maid,  504,  505, 
etc. ;  questioned  by  Manfred, 
562-566 

Black  George,  Allworthy's  game- 
keeper, 323,  325 ;  informed  on 
by  Blifil,  338-340 

Blanche,  daughter  of  Count  de 
Villefort,  598  (and  note) ;  caught 
in  storm,  599-603,  604,  etc.; 
entrapped  in  robber  stronghold, 
629-647,  650 

Blifil,  Master,  Allworthy's  nephew, 
316  (and  note) ;  informs  on 
Tom,  322-323;  discussed  by 
Thwackum  and  Square,  324-327  ; 
informs  on  Tom,  336-337 ;  in- 
forms   on    Black    George,    338- 


787 


788 


INDEX 


340 ;  plays  part  in  bird  incident, 
348-350  ;  visits  Tom,  355  ;  gets 
Western's  proposal,  371-372; 
visits  Sophia,  377-380;  informs 
on  Tom,  390-392 

Blifil,  Mrs.  See  AUworthy,  Miss 
Bridget 

Bobby,  Master,  Tristram  Shandy's 
brother,  397 

Bors,  Arthurian  knight,  in  quest 
of  Grail,  21-29;  returns  to 
Camelot,  29,  34 ;  visits  Launee- 
lot  at  hermitage,  43-46 ;  brings 
him  news  of  tournament,  46 ; 
carries  news  of  him  to  Arthur, 
47 

Bramble,  Matthew,  Lydia  Mel- 
ford's  uncle,  419 ;  writes  de- 
scription of  Bath,  423-428  ;  in 
coach  accident,  434-436 ;  be- 
friends CUnker,  436-442 

Bramble,  Mrs.  (Miss)  Tabitha, 
Bramble's  sister,  419 ;  takes 
waters  at  Bath,  433 ;  in  coach 
accident,  434-436 ;  is  offended 
by  Clinker,  436-442 

Branghtons,  Evelina's  relatives, 
invite  her  to  opera,  463-465 ; 
adventures  at  opera  house,  469- 
478 

Bunyan,  John,  introd.,  IX  ;  128-159 

Burney,  Fanny  (Mme.  d'Arblay), 
introd.,  X,  XI-XII ;    443-482 

"Caleb  Williams."  See  "Things 
as  They  Are  "  ;  or,  "  The  Adven- 
tures of  Caleb  Williams  " 

Caleb  Williams,  tells  his  story, 
parentage  and  father's  death, 
737-738;  visited  by  Falkland, 
738 ;  becomes  his  secretary, 
739 ;  discovers  him  in  mysteri- 
ous situation,  and  incurs  his 
anger,  741-742  ;  hears  Falkland's 
story,  743-753 ;  searches  his 
effects  and  becomes  his  victim, 
753-783 ;  learns  of  his  crime, 
756-757 ;  is  imprisoned  by  hirn, 
758-766 ;  escapes  and  takes 
refuge  with  thieves,  767-774; 
prosecutes  Falkland,  774-783 ; 
forgives  him,  783-785 

"  Captain  Singleton,"  introd.,  X  ; 
selections  from,  172-238 

Captain  Singleton,  stolen  by  gyp- 
sies, 172-173 ;  goes  to  sea,  173- 
174 ;  crosses  Africa  with  band 
of   marooned   companions,    174— 


193 ;  reaches  England  and  turns 
pirate,  193-224 ;  meets  with 
William  the  Quaker,  195 ;  fights 
at  sea,  201-204;  is  directed  by 
William  in  adventure  with  negro 
ship,  207-217 ;  is  urged  by  Wil- 
liam to  rr-form,  217-224 ;  es- 
capes with  William  from  pirates, 
224-225;  repents,  226-232  ;  goes 
with  William  to  Venice,  233- 
237 ;  returns  with  him  to  Eng- 
land, 238 

"Castle  of  Otranto,"  introd.,  XII; 
reprinted,  483-577 

Christian,  in  distress,  128-129; 
meets  Evangelist,  129-130 ; 
starts  on  pilgrimage,  130 ;  falls 
into  Slough  of  Despond,  132- 
134 ;  goes  through  Vanity  Fair, 
134-143;  meets  Hopeful,  143; 
gets  into  By-path  meadow,  144— 
146 ;  is  imprisoned  in  Doubting 
Castle,  146-151 ;  approaches  and 
enters  Celestial  City,  151-159 

Claius,   Arcadian   shepherd,   88-95 

"  Clarissa  Harlowe,"  introd.,  X-XI ; 
selections  from,  239-302 

Clarissa    Harlowe,    scorns    Solmes, 
242-245  ;   incurs  family  displeas- 
ure, 245-247 ;    urged  by  family 
to  accept  Solmes,  251-253  ;    i^er- 
secuted     by     family,     254-260 
elopes  with  Lovelace,   260-261 
is   settled   in   London,   264—265 
escapes  to  Covent  Garden,  278 
(note) ;     is    arrested    for    debt, 
279;    is    released,   282-284;    her 
illness  and  death,  284-294 

Clementina,  Lady,  wife  of  William 
the  elder,  714 ;  described,  715- 
716,  717,  718,  etc.;  news  of 
her  death,  733 

CUtophon,  son  of  Kalander,  an 
Arcadian  gentleman,  102,  103 

Collins,  Falkland's  steward,  be- 
friends Caleb  WilUams,  738-739, 
741,  742-743;  tells  Falkland's 
story,  743-753 

Conrad,  son  of  Manfred  of  Otranto, 
483 ;  slain  by  gigantic  helmet, 
484-485 

Curio,  suitor  to  Lucilla,  83-84, 85, 87 

Daiphantus.     See  Pyrocles,  94 
Dametas,  Arcadian  shepherd,  guard- 
ian of  Pamela,  100-101,  117 
Day,    Thomas,    introd.,    X,    XII- 
XIII;   679-705 


INDEX 


789 


Defoe,   Daniel,   introd.,   X;     172- 

238 

Demogoras,  suitor  to  Parthenia, 
102-105 

Despair.     See  Giant  Despair 

Diffidence,  wife  of  Giant  De- 
spair, 147-148,  150 

Don  Ferardo,  fattier  of  Lucilla, 
63,  64,  73,  76 ;  urges  marriage 
of  Lucilla  and  Philautus,  77- 
80 ;  reproves  Lucilla  for  treat- 
ment of  Philautus,  85-86;  dies, 
87 

Dorothee,  servant  at  Chateau-le- 
Blanc,  tells  Emily  story  of  castle, 
606(and  note)-613,  614,  615, 
etc. 

Du  Pont,  M.,.  Emily's  protector,  598, 
605,  etc. 

Duval,  Mme.,  Evelina's  grand- 
mother, injustice  to  daughter, 
443-448,  451  ;  having  discov- 
ered Evelina  in  London,  takes 
her  to  opera,  465-482 

Ector,  King  Arthur's  foster-father, 
3,4 

Elaine  le  Blank,  loves  Launoelot 
31 ;    learns  his  identity,   39-41 
nurses  him  at  hermitage,  42-48 
grieves   over   his   departure  and 
dies,  48-52 

Emily  St.  Aubert,  on  way  to 
Udolpho,  578-581  ;  her  arrival 
and  experiences  there,  581-598 ; 
her  escape  from,  598 ;  arrives  at 
Chateau-le-Blanc,  605 ;  explores 
castle,  606-613 ;  grieves  over 
Valancourt,  623-624;  hears  ex- 
planation of  veiled  portrait,  648- 
650 ;  is  reconciled  with  Valan- 
court, 650-655 

"  Euphues.  The  Anatomy  of  Wit," 
introd.,  VII,  VIII ;  selections 
from,  60-87 

Euphues,   described,   60 ;     goes   to 
Naples,    61 ;     meets    Philautus 
62;   they  call  on  Lucilla,  64-69 
he    deceives    Philautus,    70-72 
woos   and   wins   Lucilla,   73-80 
writes  to  Philautus,  82 ;    is  sur- 
planted  by  Curio,  83-84 ;    seeks 
solace  in  study,  85  ;   is  reconciled 
with  Philautus,  87 

Evangehst,  starts  Christian  on 
pilgrimage,  129-130 

"  Evelina,"  introd.,  XI-XII ;  selec- 
tions   from,    443-482 


Evelina,  writes  to  Mr.  Villars  from 
Howard  Grove,  452-454 ;  from 
London,  454-482 ;  sees  Garrick 
act,  454-455;  walks  in  Mall, 
455 ;  goes  shopping,  456 ;  at- 
tends a  ball,  and  meets  Lord 
Orville,  457-463 ;  goes  to  opera, 
463-482 

Excalibur,  King  Arthur's  sword, 
its  coming,  6-7 ;  its  passing, 
56-57 

Faithfid,  Christian's  companion 
through  Vanity  Fair,  134-143 

Falconara,  Count  of.       See  Jerome 

Falkland,  makes  Caleb  Williams 
his  secretary,  739 ;  is  described, 
740-741  ;  his  story  told,  743- 
753 ;  discovers  Williams  in  pri- 
vate apartment,  and  makes  him 
his  victim,  754-783 ;  confesses 
his  crime,  756-757 ;  is  prose- 
cuted by  Williams,  774-783 ;_  is 
conquered  by  him,  783 ;  dies, 
784 

Fielding,  Henry,  introd.,  X,  XI ; 
303-395 

Forester,  prosecutes  Caleb  Wil- 
Hams,  758,  776 

Frederick,  Marquis  of  Vincenza, 
father  of  Isabella,  483,  525-526, 
531,^41 ;  discovers  his  daughter, 
542-543;  tells  his  story,  543- 
545;  would  wed  Matilda,  559; 
is  warned  by  spectre,  568-569 

Galahad,  Arthurian  knight,  called 
Launcelot's  son,  12 ;  meets 
Launcelot  on  Grail  quest,  15 ; 
meets  and  heals  maimed  king, 
22-25  ;  beholds  marvels  of  Grail, 
22-28 ;    dies,  28 

Gawain,  King  Arthur's  nephew, 
asks  to  be  knighted,  9 ;  vows  to 
go  on  Grail  quest,  11 ;  rides  on 
quest,  13-21 ;  in  tournament, 
32,  35;  goes  to  Astolat,  38-40; 
takes  news  of  Launcelot  to 
court,  41-42 

Giant  Despair,  Lord  of  Doubting 
Castle,  imprisons  Christian  and 
Hopeful,   146-151 

Godwin,  William,  introd.,  X,  XIII; 
737-785 

Grail.     See  Holy  Grail 

Guenever,  becomes  Arthur's  queen, 
7-9 ;  grieves  over  knights'  de- 
parture on   Grail  quest,    12-13 ; 


790 


INDEX 


is     displeased    with     Launcelot, 
41 ;    becomes  nun  at  Almesbury, 
59 
Gynecia,  wife  of  King  Basilius,  99, 
101,  113,  115,  118 

Hannah,  Clarissa's  maid,  244,  264 

Harley,  his  grave,  657 ;  admires 
Miss  Walton,  660-663;  sets 
out  for  London,  and  meets 
beggar,  663-666;  visits  Bedlam, 
667-671 ;  meets  with  Edwards 
and  restores  liis  grandchildren, 
671-674;  falls  ill,  674;  is  visited 
by  Miss  Walton,  676-677  ;  dies, 
and  is  buried,  677-678 

Harlowe  family,  persecute  Clarissa, 
242-260  ;  grieve  over  her  death, 
295-298 

Hate-good,  judge  in  Vanity  Fair, 
138-142 

Hawkins,  tenant  of  Tyrell's,  per- 
secuted by  him  and  hanged,  751- 
753,  756,  757,  759,  779,  782 

Help,  assists  Christian  out  of 
Slough  of  Despond,  133 

Henri,  son  of  Count  de  Villefort, 
598  (and  note) ;  helps  save  ship, 
603-605;  takes  Ludovico  to 
haunted  chambers,  615-619 ; 
hunts  for  Ludovico,  625-627 

Henry  the  elder,  goes  to  London, 
706-707  ;  meets  with  difficulties, 
707-708 ;  has  change  of  fortune, 
708-712;  marries,  712;  loses 
wife,  714,  715,  716,  etc.; 
writes  to  brother,  720-723;  is 
rescued  by  son,  730-731 ;  re- 
turns to  England,  731 ;  sees 
funeral  of  brother,  732-733  ;  hves 
with  son,  733-736 

Henry  the  younger,  arrives  in 
England,  720-726;  appears  to 
disadvantage  in  society,  720- 
730 ;  rescues  father  and  returns 
to  England,  731 ;  sees  uncle's 
funeral,  732-733;  marries,  733- 
736 

Hickman,  Charles,  admirer  of  Miss 
Howe,  267 

Hippolita,  wife  of  Manfred  of 
Otranto,  483,  484,  etc.;  is  to 
be  divorced,  553-556 ;  seeks 
permission  for  divorce,  557-559 ; 
enters  convent,  576 

Holy  Grail,  appears  to  Round 
Table,  10-11;  is  sought  by 
Arthur's  knights,  11-29 


Honour,  Sophia's  maid,  encourages 
Tom,  358-359,  360 

Hopeful,  Christian's  companion, 
143-159 

Howard,  Lady,  friend  of  Mr.  Vil- 
lars,  443 ;  invites  Evelina  to 
Howard  Grove,  449 

Howe,  Anna,  Clarissa's  friend  and 
recipient  of  most  of  her  letters, 
writes  to  her  for  account  of 
family  differences,  239-241 ; 
urges  her  to  marry  Lovelace,  261, 
265-266 

"Humphry  Chnker,"  introd.,  XI; 
selections  from,  418-442 

Humphry  Chnker,  offends  Miss 
Bramble,  436-442  ;  enters  Bram- 
ble's service,  442 

Ignorance,  refused  admittance  to 
Celestial  City,  159 

Igraine,  King  Arthur's  mother,  2 

Imoinda,  described,  165  ;  betrothed 
to  Oroonoko,  166-167 ;  called 
Clemene,  167 ;  married  to  Oroo- 
noko, 167,  170,  171 

Inchbald,  Mrs.  Ehzabeth,  introd., 
X,  XIII;    706-736 

Isabella,  betrothed  to  Conrad, 
483,  484,  etc. ;  wooed  by  Man- 
fred, 489-491 ;  escapes  from 
castle,  491-495,  534-535;  pro- 
tected by  Theodore,  539-541 ; 
discovers  father,  542-543 ;  es- 
tranged from  Matilda,  549-552; 
weds,  577 

"Jack  Wilton."  See  "  The  Unfor- 
tunate Traveller" 

Jenkins,  Winifred,  maid  in  Bramble 
family,  420 ;  writes  home  de- 
scribing Bath,  432-434 ;  in  coach 
accident,  434^36 

Jerome,  a  monk,  helps  Isabella, 
512-518;  discovers  son,  522- 
524;     helps    HippoUta,    557-559 

Kalander,  Arcadian  gentleman, 
92;  entertains  Musidorus,  94r- 
109 

Kay,  King  Arthur's  foster-brother, 
3  ;   is  made  seneschal,  6 

Lady  of  the  Lake,     See  Excahbur 

Launcelot,  Arthurian  knight,  rides 

on  Grail  quest,   11-21;    goes  to 

Astolat  and  meets   Elaine,   30- 

52 


INDEX 


791 


Lauren  tini,  Lady,  mysteriously 
connected  with  Emily,  supposed 
dead,  592-595  ;   649  (and  note) 

Lawrence,  Lady  Betty,  Lovelace's 
aunt,  256,  271-272 

Le  Fever,  assisted  by  My  Uncle 
Toby,  399-408 

Livia,  Lucilla's  friend,  64,  71-72 

Lovelace,  Robert,  Clarissa's  ad- 
mirer, injures  her  brother  in  duel, 
239-241,  242,  245;  writes  Bel- 
ford  about  Clarissa,  248-251, 
254,  258;  writes  Belford  ac- 
count of  elopement,  261-264 ; 
pursues  Clarissa,  266-278  ;  hears 
of  her  arrest,  278-279;  hears 
of  her  illness,  287;  dies,  299- 
302 

Lucan  the  Butler,  supports  King 
Arthur  in  war  with  Mordred, 
54 ;   dies,  55 

Lucilla,  daughter  of  Don  Ferardo, 
entertains  Euphues  and  Philau- 
tus,  64-69,  72-74;  attracted 
to  Euphues,  74-77 ;  urged  to 
wed  Philautus,  77-80 ;  rejects 
Euphues  for  Curio,  83-84;  de- 
fies father,  85-86 

Ludovico,  a  servant,  accompanies 
Emily  to  Chateau-le-Blanc,  605 
prepares    to    watch    in    haunted 
chambers,      613-619,      622-623 
disappears,  624—627 ;    reappears 
645-647  (and  note) 

Lyly,    John,    introd.,    VII,    VIII 
60-87 

M.,  Lord,  Lovelace's  uncle,  265 
(and  note),  272 

Mackenzie,  Henry,  introd.,  X, 
XII ;     656-678 

Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  introd.,  VII ; 
1-59 

"Man  of  Feeling,"  introd.,  XII; 
selections  from,  656-678 

Manfred,  Prince  of  Otranto,  483; 
discovers  dead  son,  484-485 ; 
seizes  strange  peasant,  486-488 ; 
shows  unnatural  conduct  towards 
family,  488-491,  etc.;  is  warned 
by  spectre  portrait,  491-492  ;  dis- 
covers peasant  in  castle  vaults, 
496-498 ;  gets  rumor  of  giant 
form  in  castle,  498 ;  searches 
for  Isabella,  502-504 ;  prepares 
to  marry  her,  513-518 ;  inquires 
about  her  escape,  518-520;  or- 
ders   peasant's    death,    520-522 ; 


finds  him  to  be  Jerome's  son, 
Theodore,  522-524 ;  receives 
knight  of  Gigantic  Sabre,  525- 
535 ;  hears  Jerome's  story,  546- 
548 ;  urges  Jerome's  consent 
to  divorce,  559-560 ;  proposes 
marriage  for  daughter,  559 ; 
questions  Bianca  about  Isabella, 
562-566 ;  urges  double  mar- 
riage, 567  ;  seeks  Theodore,  570 ; 
slays  daughter,  571 ;  repents 
and  abdicates,  575-577 

Maria,  her  story,  415-417 

Matilda,  daughter  of  Manfred  of 
Otranto,  483,  484,  etc. ;  talks 
with  maid  and  discovers  peas- 
ant, 504—512;  frees  Theodore, 
535-538 ;  is  estranged  from  Isa- 
bella, 549-552 ;  hears  proposal 
of  marriage,  552-553 ;  meets 
Theodore  in  church,  570;  is 
slain  by  Manfred,  571 

MeLford,  Jerry,  writes  to  Philhps 
describing  family,  418-419;  de- 
scribes coach  accident  and  conse- 
quences, 434^142 

Melford,  Lydia,  writes  to  Mrs. 
Jermyn  of  love  affair,  419-420; 
and  to  Miss  WiUis,  420-421; 
writes  describing  Bath,  428-432 

Merlin,  counsels  King  Uther,  1, 
3  (note),  4;  helps  King  Arthiir 
to  get  Excalibur,  6-7 ;  warns 
Arthur  against  Guenever,  8 ; 
finds  knights  for  Round  Table,  9 

Merton,  Mr.,  manner  of  living, 
679,  680,  684;  discusses  Harry 
Sandford  with  Mrs.  Merton 
and  decides  to  let  Mr.  Barlow 
train  Tommy,  686-687 ;  takes 
Tommy  home,  703-705 

Merton,  Tommy,  indulged  by  par- 
ents, 679-680 ;  rescued  by  Harry, 
682 ;  appears  in  contrast  to 
Harry,  685-687 ;  goes  to  school 
to  Mr.  Barlow,  691-703;  is 
taken  home  by  father,  703- 
705 

Mirvins,  friends  of  Evelina  :  Cap- 
tain Mirvin,  452 ;  talks  with 
Mme.  Duval,  466-468;  Mrs. 
Mirvin,  444,  etc. ;  chaperons  Eve- 
lina in  London,  454—482;  Miss 
Mirvin  (Maria),  448,  455,  etc.; 
goes  to  ball  with  Evelina,  457- 
463 

Miso,  wife  of  Dametas,  100,  117; 
goes  bathing,  118-120 


792 


INDEX 


Montague,    Miss,    niece    of    Lord 

M.,  271-272 
Montoni,    Emily's   uncle   by   mar- 
riage, 578  (and  note),  581,  582, 

etc. 
Montoni,     Mme.,     Emily's     aunt, 

578  (and  note),  579,  583,  etc. 
Mopsa,  daughter  of  Dametas,  100 

(and  note),    117;    goes  bathing, 

118-120 
Morano,  suitor  to  Emily,  578,  589, 

596 
Morden,    Col.    William,    Clarissa's 

cousin,    258;     visits    her,    288- 

291 ;     writes    Belford   of   family 

grief,    294-298;     kills    Lovelace 

in  duel,  299-302 
Mordred,  King    Arthur's    nephew, 

wars  with,  and  is  slain  by  him, 

53-54 
"Morte    Darthur,"   introd.,   VII; 

selections  from,  1-59 
Musidorus,     rescued     from     ship- 

A\Teck,    91-92 ;     entertained    bv 

Kalander,    94-109,    114 
My  Uncle  Toby,  saves  a  fly,  396- 

397;    befriends   Le  Fever,   399- 

408;    is  appealed  to  by  Widow 

Wadman,  413-415 
"Mysteries   of   Udolpho,"  introd., 

XII ;  selections  from,  578-655 

Nashe,     Thomas,     introd.,     VIII ; 

121-127 
"Nature  and  Art,"  introd.,  XIII; 

selections  from,  706-736 
Norton,     Mrs.,     Clarissa's     nurse, 

255,  258,  293,  294 
Norwynne,    Mr.,    son    of    William 

the     elder,     719.     See     William 

the  younger 

Obadiah,  servant  in  Shandy  family, 
397-398 

Obstinate,  Christian's  companion, 
130-132 

"Oroonoko,"  introd.,  IX;  selec- 
tions from,  160-171 

Oroonoko,  early  history  of,  162- 
167 ;  betrothed  to  Imoinda, 
166 ;  called  Caesar  after  en- 
slavement, 167 ;  marries  Imo- 
inda, 167;  kills  tigress,  169- 
170  ;  is  put  to  death,  170-171 

Orville,  Lord,  admirer  of  Evelina, 
meets  her  at  ball,  457-463  ;  goes 
to  opera,  473-478;  calls,  481- 
482 


Palladius.     See  Musidorus,  94 

Pamela,  daughter  of  King  Basilius, 
described,  99-100;  goes  bathing, 
118-120 

Parthenia,  Arcadian  lady,  history 
of,  101-114 

Percivale,  Arthurian  knight,  in 
quest  of  Grail,  21-28 ;  dies  a 
hermit,    28 

Philautus,  suitor  to  Lucilla,  meets 
with  Euphues,  62-63  ;  takes  him 
to  Lucilla's,  64-69,  72-73;  re- 
jected by  her,  76-80,  83;  re- 
proaches Euphues,  80-82,  85 ; 
is  reconciled   with  Euphues,   87 

PhiUips,  Sir  Watkin,  recipient  of 
Melford's  letters,  418,  434 

Philoclea,  daughter  of  King  Basil- 
ius, 97;  described,  99-100;  in 
love  with  Zelmane,  114—117; 
goes  bathing,  118-120 

"Pilgrim's  Progress,"  introd.,  IX; 
selections  from,  128-159 

Pliable,  Christian's  companion, 
130-132 

Pyrocles,  91,  carried  off  by  pirates, 
92,  94 ;  disguised  as  Amazon, 
114-120 

Radeliffe,    Mrs.    Ann,    introd.,    X, 

XII;   578-655 
Raymond,  captain  of  thieves,  be- 
friends    Caleb     WilUams,     767- 

774 
Rebecca,     betrothed     and,     later, 

wife  of  Henry  the  younger,  731, 

734-736 
Richardson,    Samuel,    introd.,    X- 

XI;    239-302 
Round   Table,    6,   8 ;     established, 

9,   11,  13,  etc. 
"Royal  Slave."     See  "  Oroonoko  " 

St.  Aubert,  Emily's  father,  578 
(note),   649-650 

St.  Foix,  Blanche's  betrothed,  627, 
629  (and  note) ;  meets  adventure 
in  robber  stronghold,  629-647,  650 

"Sandford  and  Merton,"  introd., 
XII-XIII ;  selections  from,  679- 
705 

Sandford,  Farmer,  680,  704 

Sandford,  Harry,  a  model  boy, 
680-681 ;  saves  Tommy  from 
snake,  682 ;  is  entertained  at 
Merton's,  682-685;  is  a  model 
pupil,  691-703 

Sarah,  Lady,  Lovelace's  aunt,  256 


INDEX 


793 


Shandy,  Captain.  See  My  Uncle 
Toby 

Shandy,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  discuss  their 
son,  408-410 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  introd.,  VII, 
yill;   88-120 

Sinclair,  Mrs.,  London  lodging- 
house  keeper,  278    (note  1),    279 

Smith,  Mrs.,  woman  with  whom 
Clarissa  takes  refuge,  278  (note 
2),    285,  286,  288-289,  292 

Smollett,  Tobias  George,  introd., 
X,  XI ;   418-442 

Solmes,  Roger,  suitor  to  Clarissa, 
242 ;  visits  Harlowe  Place,  244- 
245,  250,  252,  253,  257,  260 

Square,  gentleman  resident  at  All- 
worthy's,  322  (and  note) ;  dis- 
cusses Tom  and  Blifil,  324-328; 
admires  Mrs.  Blifil,  329-331, 
335,   etc. ;    visits  Tom,   354-355 

Sterne,  Laurence,  introd.,  X,  XI ; 
396-417 

Strephon,  Arcadian  shepherd,  88- 
95 

Susannah,  maid  in  Shandy  family, 
397-399 

Theodore,  son  of  Count  of  Fal- 
conara  (the  peasant.  See  Man- 
fred, Prince  of  Otranto) ;  his 
identity  discovered,  522-524  ;  im- 
prisoned by  Manfred,  525  ;  freed 
by  Matilda,  535-538;  protects 
Isabella,  539-541  ;  wounds  her 
father,  541-543 ;  hears  his  fa- 
ther's story,  546-548  ;  his  passion 
discovered  by  father,  556-557 ; 
pursues  passion,  570-574 ;  is 
proclaimed  heir  of  Otranto,  574 ; 
weds  Isabella,  577 

"  Things  as  They  Are ;  or,  The  Ad- 
ventm-es  of  Caleb  Williams,"  in- 
trod., XIII;  selections  from, 
737-785 

Thwackum,  clergyman  resident  at 
Allworthy's,  309-320,  322-323; 
discusses  Tom  and  Blifil,  324- 
328;  admires  Mrs.  Blifil,  329- 
331,    334,  etc.;    visits  Tom,  354 

Toby.     .See  My  Uncle  Toby 

"Tom  Jones,"  introd.,  XI;  selec- 
tions from,  303-395 

Tom  Jones,  introduced,  308-315; 
promises  ill,  315-320 ;  quarrels 
with  Blifil  and  takes  conse- 
quences, 322-323 ;  discussed  by 
Thwackum    and    Square,    324- 


328;  favored  by  Mrs.  Bhfil, 
331-332 ;  discussed  by  author, 
332-333 ;  youthful  escapades 
and  consequences,  334-350  ;  res- 
cues Sophia,  and  breaks  arm, 
350-353  ;  confined  at  Western's, 
falls  in  love  with  Sophia,  353- 
360;  meets  Sophia,  382-383; 
banished  by  AUworthy,  393- 
395 

Trim,  Corporal,  My  Uncle  Toby's 
servant,  uses  hat  with  dramatic 
effect,  397-399;  takes  part  in 
Le  Fever  episode,  401-402,  402- 
406,  407 

"Tristram  Shandy,"  introd.,  XI; 
selections  from,  396-417 

Tristram  Shandy,  discussed  by 
parents,  408-410 ;  takes  pity 
on  ass,  411-413;  meets  with 
Maria,    415-417 

T>Trel,  Barnabas,  brutal  landlord, 
enemy  of  Falkland,  mysteriously 
murdered,  746-753,  756,  757, 
779,  782 

"Unfortunate  Traveller,"  introd., 
VIII;    selections  from,    121-127 

Uther  Pendragon,  King  Arthur's 
father,  dies,  1-2 

Vain-hope,  ferries  Ignorance  over 
to  Celestial  City,  159 

Valancourt,  Emily's  betrothed, 
579  (and  note),  583,  595-596, 
606,  623  (and  note) ;  reconcilia- 
tion with  Emily,  650-655 

Villars,  Rev.  Arthur,  Evelina's 
guardian,  and  recipient  of  her 
letters,  tells  story  of  her  parents, 
445-448 ;  permits  her  to  visit 
Howard  Grove,  450-452 

Villefort,  Count  de,  598  (note)  ; 
takes  Ludovico  to  haunted  cham- 
bers, 615-619 ;  hears  strange 
miisic,  620-622 ;  searches  for 
Ludovico,  623-627 ;  meets  ad- 
venture in  robber  stronghold, 
629-647,   650 

Villeroi,  Marchioness  de,  606 
(note) ;  her  chambers  visited 
by  Emily,  606-615,  618,  628, 
649  (and  note) 

Wadman,  Widow,  assisted  by  My 

Uncle  Toby,  413-415 
Walpole,  Horace,  introd.,  X,    XII ; 

483-577 


794 


INDEX 


Walton,  Miss,  Harlev's  friend,  657  ; 
described,  660-663;  calls  on 
Hariey,  676-677 

Western,  Mrs.  (^Miss),  Western's 
sister,  introduced,  361-362  ;  dis- 
cusses with  brother  Sophia's 
future,  362-366 ;  prepares  So- 
phia to  meet  suitor,  373-377 

Western,  Sophia,  introduced,  344- 
347;  loses  bird,  348-350;  falls 
from  horse,  350-353 ;  plays  on 
harpsichord,  356-358,  360 ;  her 
future  discussed  by  father  and 
aunt,  362-366;  her  conduct  at 
dinner-party,  367-368 ;  is  pre- 
pared to  meet  suitor,  373-377 ; 
is  wooed  bv  Blifil,  377-380;  re- 
jects father's  choice,  380-381 

Western,  Squire,  Allworthv's  neigh- 
bor, 337.  339  ;  favors  Tom,  340- 
341,  345,  347,  etc.;  discusses 
Sophia's  future,  362-366  ;  makes 
proposal  to  AUworthy,  368-369 ; 
is  angered  bv  Sophia,  380-381  ; 
and  by  Tom',  384-388;  informs 
Allworthj'  of  Tom's  conduct, 
388-390 

Wilkins,  Deborah,  servant  in  All- 
worthy  family,  307,  309-310, 
312,  etc. 


William  the  elder,  goes  to  London, 
706-707 ;  fails  to  succeed,  707- 
711  ;  oVitains  a  hNnng,  711 ;  mar- 
ries, 713-714;  hears  brother 
has  left  England,  717;  interest 
in  son,  718-720;  gets  letter 
from  brother,  720-723;  receives 
nephew,  and  tries  to  instruct 
him,  723-730  ;   dies,  732-733 

William  the  Quaker  (William  Wal- 
ters), surgeon  taken  prisoner  by 
Captain  Singleton  on  way  to 
Barbadoes.  See  Captain  Single- 
ton 

WiUiam  the  younger,  described, 
718-720 ;  appears  to  advantage 
before   cousin,    726-730,    733 

Willis,  Miss,  recipient  of  Lydia 
Melford's    letters,    420,    428 

Willoughby,  Sir  Clement,  admirer 
of  Evelina,  463;  calls,  465-467; 
meets  her  at  opera,  473 ;  takes 
her  home,  475-482 

Wilson,  in  love  with  Lydia  Mel- 
ford,  421 ;  wTites  to  her,  421- 
423 

Zelmane  (PjTOcles),  114-117; 
watches  princesses  bathe,  118- 
120 


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